


For you sister, I will live

by manonrose284



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Clary Fray & Alec Lightwood Friendship, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Alec Lightwood, Hurt Jace Wayland, Hurt/Comfort, Parabatai Bond, Protective Clary Fray, Protective Simon Lewis, Simon Lewis & Alec Lightwood Friendship, The Clave (Shadowhunter Chronicles), Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2019-11-19 10:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 46,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18134759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manonrose284/pseuds/manonrose284
Summary: When Alec disobeys a direct order from a corrupt Clave leader, he must hide his injuries to prevent being discovered and ensure the safety of those he loves most.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Brief set up of what's going on: 
> 
> Clary calls a meeting with Clave leaders and Shadowhunters from the American Institutes to share something important. Izzy and Jace were called on a mission just before it started, so they aren’t there. Magnus is at a really important warlock conference across the world and has no communications with anyone till he gets back. 
> 
> This is my first Shadowhunters fic, let me know what you think <3

The sanctum was completely pact with bodies—  representatives from every Institute in the country—  and yet there was no feeling of chaos, only cool calculation from the Clave members’ watchful eyes as they scanned the organized crowd.

One such member stepped forward from the neat row that stood above the crowd of Shadowhunters on a slightly elevated stage of marble. Not high enough to evoke feelings of dictatorship, but enough to remind those gathered who was in control.

“What a treat to us all,” the female cooed, “to visit the New York Institute. Such a long time since we have had reason to leave Idris.”

And from her spot before the row of Clave leaders, Clary wished desperately to have Izzy or Jace at her side. To give her strength as the woman– Khalida– trained her attention to the lone sheep. But she stood tall and did not let the rising anxiousness show. Because she was Clary Fairchild, and she had called this meeting to do what she did best, protect those she loved.

“Yes, I cannot thank you all enough for coming,” she kept her voice kind, but allowed urgency to fill it as she steeled her nerves and turned to lock eyes with each person in the room.

“In the past three days, the New York Institute has been alerted to multiple attacks on innocents, and when we’ve arrived to help, the victims were either dead or had been tortured beyond repair.”

Khalida seemed to be growing impatient so Clary got to the point, “The victims…  Downworlders. And I believe they are being hunted by some sort of creature unknown to those at the New York Institute.” Growing more sure of herself, Clary at last met Khalida’s eyes, “It needs to be stopped.”

Khalida didn’t allow emotion to cross her face, even as she felt fury burn deep within her core.

There indeed did exist a creature that lurked in the shadows and feasted on the Downworlders. But what the girl had yet to uncover, was that the creature was an imbecile—  a mindless killer—  and as such was the perfect tool to command; as she and other high ranking Clave officials had for the past year.

And so, before the lone girl could damn them all, she took a relaxed yet powerful step forward.

“Dear _child,_ I suggest you take a breath and reconsider your values—  your loyalties. The deaths of Downworlders is not a concern of the Shadowhunters,” she sneered and leveled a gaze that dared a challenge. She looked around the militarily organized crowd of black leather and silver gilded weapons—  disrupted only by the shock of red hair coming from this girl who threatened to tear down everything she had worked so hard to keep secret.

How else were the Shadowhunters to remain the dominant species? Khalida was a proud woman, but she was not daft enough to think her race could stay at the top of the food chain through strength and runes alone.

Order and strategy was the only way. _The law is hard, but it is the law._

“No one,” she let her words drift over the crowd, “is to pursue Ms. Fairchild’s _claims_ … lest they wish to face the consequences of disobeying a direct order.” She allowed her voice to soften, a weapon of deceit she fell into as naturally as breathing. “We have lost many of our own this year… let us not have to attend any funerals of young nefillum who died facing a creature not a threat to their own kind. No more angel blood will be shed for the Downworlders.”

Clary’s mouth gaped. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

Turning to the hunters behind her, her eyes raced to each nodding head. But some were not so easily swayed by the pretty words from the woman before them, for a large section were looking deeper into the crowd to someone else. And Khalida seemed to notice.

Her eyes narrowed to the male who seemed to hold much influence here. This was his Institute after all… loyalty like this could be valuable, if she could sway it in her favor.

“Mr. Lightwood…”

Clary’s attention snapped to the tall, muscular archer as he emerged from the mass of bodies to join her in the empty space. And although he halted within arms reach, Clary felt as though she and Alec were miles apart.

“And what do you think of the girl’s claims?” There was danger in those words, such hate radiating from that small form.

But Clary was watching Alec, completely frozen. And the redhead didn’t think she would ever forget how he looked at her just then.

How he turned to her, looking up and down as if regarding some sort of filth. How he looked at her like she was _nothing_.

“I think Clary has been overwhelmed by her new life and is becoming quite delusional. The mundanes do seem to like attention.” Clary could barely hear his next words over the sound of her shattered heart.

And as if he couldn’t hear it himself, or see her flushed face and shaking hands, Alec turned his gaze back to Khalida with the posture of a leader, “I am so sorry to have wasted the Clave’s time. Rest assured, no resources in my institute will be used to pursue such matters.”

The closing remarks of the Clave didn’t reach Clary, it was as if she were underwater. Drowning in Alecs words that continued to echo around her despite him having retreated to the depths of the crowd.

Everyone was dismissed, finally.

And without Jace’s firm hand to hold, Izzy’s warm smile to renew her with confidence, or Alec’s calmness to center herself, Clary didn’t have anything left within herself to keep the thick tears from flowing down her face and splattering on the marble floors.

And no one reached for her as she staggered through the crowd.

* * *

 

Finally back in the comfort and serene quiet of her chambers, Khalida drew the curtain open, allowing the white light of Idris to dance along her pale arms and send warmth to her dark runes.

With a deep breath, she turned her back to the city she loved to draw water for a bath. But as she strode through the large room, she paused before the mirror.

Secured to the wall beside the bathroom door, it’s gold embellishments and obsessively clean surface filled that empty place in her chest. As a Shadowhunter, Khalida was expected to purge any love or happiness from her life—  as spoke the Law—  and yet she would die before letting anything happen to that mirror.

Such a stark contrast was this thing of glittering gold to the massive yet bland room that was completely devoid of color.

A gift from another time—  a time without worry of Downworlders or having to be constantly watching her back during political happenings of the Clave. The humans thought they had it bad. Khalida smirked to think of how the _mundanes_ would gape at the Clave; the corrupt, yet lethally effective system that governed equally deadly hunters.

She gazed with admiration at the figure staring back.

Ordinary in every right—  dirt brown hair and eyes, average height for a female of her relatively young age—  she had realized only through clawing her way up the ranks of the Clave that her anonymity amongst the men was a weapon more powerful than any seraph blade.

When they looked at her, their eyes did not linger on the pin-straight, shoulder length hair or freckle-less skin, for there was nothing special to catch their gazes on. But if willing to look long enough, you could see that her boring locks did, in fact, contain strands of gold, and her eyes were not brown, but soft caramel with stripes as green as the poison she had slipped into her opponent’s morning tea.

At first glance, only her name held any sort of interest or originality, but none had ever bothered to look into it’s translation—  Deathless.

For Khalida may not be immortal, but the influence she sought to bring upon the Downworld… that would be eternal.

* * *

 

“Oh my gosh, Simon,” Clary screamed through the apartment. “You should have seen him! The way he looked at me! Like he couldn’t even– like he didn’t even _know_ me!”

A grunt mixed with disbelief and anger sounded from the kitchen as Simon strode out; two plates of eggs (scrambled with cheese and bacon—  Clary’s favorite) in hand.

Almost to the couch she was shaking with rage in, Simon froze suddenly, turning to the door behind him.

Clary removed her head from her hands and glanced up at the stone vampire. “Simon… what’s wrong?”

“Are you expecting a werewolf by any chance?” His voice drops an octave, “Did you tell Luke to meet at my apartment or anything?”

“No, what are you talking about?” Clary rises from the warm leather.

“There’s someone coming down the hall, and their heart rate… it’s way too slow to be a Shadowhunter or human.”

Clary shakes her head, brows scrunching in confusion.

In one fluid motion, Simon sets the plates down on the table beside him, and goes to the door cautiously. But he hesitates once more, whispering over a shoulder, “Activate your invisibility rune and hide.”

The order has no bite to it, nothing but concern for Clary’s safety. And just as her stele illuminates the rune, a knock sounds at the door. From her spot in a dark corner across the room, Clary can see Simon’s muscles tense as the urgent whisper of an unfamiliar voice flows through the wood.

“Simon?”

After a moment of hesitation the vampire responds, “Who is it?”

But the voice offers nothing; a weak “please” as the only answer.

Something in the word, the desperation or maybe the hint of disbelief as he recognizes parts of the voice, makes Simon grasp the cool metal and turn the handle.

Clary can’t see from her position, but she does hear Simon’s quick breath of surprise, “What the– _Alec_?”

He opens the door wider to reveal a hunched over Alec Lightwood, leaning heavily on the wall beside the opening. A hand hovering protectively over his chest.

“Clary… is she here? Are there any Shadowhunters here?” he asks through clenched teeth, still crouched over. And Simon’s not sure why, but he replies no, to which Alec mutters some ‘thank the angel’ with a wheezing breath.

Accidentally losing his grip in an effort to stand straight, Alec begins to slide towards the floor. With obvious effort, he rises again, bracing on the frame once more. But with a sharp intake of breath, the Lightwood rasps, “Need a safe place.”

Still in shock, it was all Simon could do to nod awkwardly, “Yah sure, come on in… but why are you here? I thought you kinda hated me? Hey… you don’t look so good.”

In the dim light of the hallway, Simon couldn’t see much but he notices the tightness in Alec’s jaw and with a tilt of his head into the light of Simon’s apartment, the beads of sweat gracing his head illuminate like a halo.

“Alec, what happened? Were you on a mission? I should call someon–”

“No!” Alec barked out, alarming Simon by how weak the words come out. “I’ll explain everything in a–” he starts, but upon taking a step into the apartment, he came crashing towards the ground. With his speed, Simon saw the collapse and rushed underneath Alec, supporting his surprising weight.

The impact of Simon’s cold body caused Alec to cry out in pain as tears started gathering in his eyes. A sight that freaked Simon out more than he’d like to admit.

Alec took an uneven breath and in a much weaker voice, “Need… transfusion ‘n… bandages…”

 _Transfusion?_ Simon thought to himself. But after setting Alec onto the couch and standing up, he realized why.

If the quickly paling skin beneath the sheen of sweat wasn’t indicator enough, Simon’s arms— that had a moment ago been hauling Alec to the couch— were now streaked red.

Not looking down, for fear of what he’d see if he looked longer at the hunter’s body, Simon nodded quickly and turned.

He almost knocked over the table as he suddenly stopped, realization striking him as he turns back around.

“What’s, uh, your blood type?”

Alec’s lids blink a few times as if he’s trying to stay awake. “Doesn’t… matter.”

Simon slaps himself on the head. _You’re a vampire what the heck man._ He knows Shadowhunter blood isn’t like that. The angel blood morphs any human plasma put into the system. It’s just that the strangeness of _Alec_ freaking _Lightwood_ being on his couch bleeding was kinda a new one for Simon and was making his brain stumble.

Once Simon reappears and has the transfusion line in place, he begins unwrapping the roll of bandages.

Clary uncloaks herself, but stays hidden in Alec’s blind spot as she strains to see his injuries. But other than the dark fabric of his shirt that was clearly soaked, the pale sweat coated skin, and the glazed eyes… Clary couldn’t detect anything that would cause Alec to act this way.

She’d seen the older Lightwood with broken limbs—  had seen him give dizzying amounts of blood to Izzy once after she’d been gravely injured—  but Clary had never seen Alec so disoriented by pain. The boiling anger she’d had towards the Shadowhunter moments ago turned to a confused simmer.

“Dude what _happened_??” Simon asks, almost begging for something to explain the worryingly damp shirt clinging to the archers chest. A shirt that he realized now had a logo on it… and was a size too small for his broad shoulders. Simon glanced up at Clary while Alec closed his eyes to gather energy. She mouthed to him ‘stolen’ and shrugged with wide eyes.

“Creature,” Alec finally says.

Simon spoke as he rose to find some scissors to get the shirt off— he had to see what it was Alec was trying to guard beneath, probably broken ribs and some scrapes by the way he’d been crouching— and his voice carried from the adjoining room.

“I— uh… I heard about the meeting thing. Clary’s… she’s pretty upset.”

In fact, Simon had been about to call Jace and ask what the hell had happened; demanded to know why Alec had been so awful to her.

But instead, he was now looking for scissors to cut his shirt off.

Even though he couldn’t see Alec’s face, Simon could hear the genuine guilt in the larger male’s words. “You don’t-don’t understand… I had to. If I’d showed I believed her, or showed I would do something about it… they would’ve put me on lock down and punished the others. It was only because of how I acted that I was able to sneak out this morning to find the Creature.” He took a few shaking breaths, the explanation taking its toll on his ruined body. “But no Shadowhunter can know what I did, or else they’ll die by the Clave’s hand.”

Simon stopped abruptly as he re-entered the room. “Wait… you mean to say that you went after that thing??”

A stupid question considering the condition Alec was in, but still, the admission shocked Simon. Not because he couldn’t believe that Alec would do such a thing, but because Simon knew he _would_. And that the Shadowhunter might have died for it with Clary living forever believing him to be a complete asshole.

Alec nodded slightly and with a twinge of pride rasped, “It died slowly.” And after regarding his body, “but not without a fight.”

Simon was surprised to feel a wave of guilt wash over him. The male before him could have died alone in the sewers, and no one would’ve known. But instead of chiding the stupidity of his actions—  because Simon knew him well enough to know that not an ounce of regret filled Alec—  he settled back onto the table beside the couch, scissors in hand.

And once Alec’s face hardened and his jaw set in anticipation, Simon began. And although she had placed a hand over her mouth to suppress a gasp at Alec’s confessions, Clary couldn’t hold back the sound as Simon cut down the center and revealed what lay beneath.

Alec ground his teeth at the pain of fabric being peeled away and spasmed slightly—  back arching as his head involuntarily pressed into the cushion as if he could escape from the sensation.

Simon had to take a step back, eyes wide in horror, mouth gaping in a silent scream as an overwhelming smell crashed into him.

Because that was skin—  rune covered skin with four morbidly jagged lacerations through it. Almost like an abstract painting by an artist who favored all things crimson, the shredded flesh was slick with it.

Reactions delayed by what Simon now realized was blood loss, Alec turned his head to the sound of Clary’s broken cry.

Alarms rang through his tired mind, but it was enough to have him try and speak over the burning agony pulsating through his chest.

“Wha-what’re you do...ing here? Can’t… you can’t know– can’t– ‘bout this…”

Scrunching his nose to focus, Simon jolted forward to gently press Alec flat on the couch, as he’d looked like he might try to get up.

And although the Shadowhunter was no match for Simon’s vampire strength in his current state, Alec fought against his solid form. Even as blood began to trickle once more and he began to gasp for air. But he struggled against him, muttering urgently, until Simon bared his teeth.

Alec calmed, muscles twitching as the actions caught up to his ravaged chest, and he locked eyes with the vampire.

“Sim’n y-you don’t undrstnd… Clave will– ‘ll kill her!” he repeated the last two words like a prayer. Over and over until Simon reached for his shoulders.

“Hey– _hey_!” he yelled out, the tears were opening wider and Simon realized Alec’s body was likely becoming overwhelmed by the pain to the point of numbness; meaning he would likely shut down instinctively if he didn’t calm down.

Clary stepped forward, realizing the same thing. “Alec, it’s alright. Don’t worry about me, I’m safe. Where is your stele? The transfusion won’t do any good if… these,” she nodded towards his ravaged form, “stay open.”

The room was beginning to blur as he began to go blind with that burning agony and blood loss, but Alec used the last of his strength to mumble, “Runes won’t… work… demon blood.”

At this, Simon and Clary straightened with alarm. But Alec spoke again, barely a whisper that only Simon could pick up with his heightened hearing, “Barely any… don’t… worry…”

Obsidian hair collided with the cushion as Alexander Lightwood, head of the New York Institute, crashed into the void of unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and leaving all the amazing kudos and comments!!!  
> I'm still not sure how many chapters this will be but for now I'm gonna keep it as four ;)
> 
> Enjoy <3 <3

Not a second had passed before Simon hurriedly grabbed the bandages, and after asking Clary to search for Alec’s stele, began pulling a long strip from the roll. He was about to approach the unconscious Shadowhunter, whose breath was worryingly shallow, when from beside him Clary spoke.

“Wait,” she said with a hand outstretched to stop him. “I bet the traces of demon blood will keep his runes from working—  probably his parabatai and iratze too.”

She forced herself to look closer at the steady flow of blood, noticing it was slightly darker than the plasma flowing from the bag above Alec and into his arm.

“That’s what he was trying to tell us. Which means… if we just cover the wounds, he’ll bleed out like a human.”

Simon let out a curse as he ran a hand through his hair.

“Stitches!” he suddenly exclaimed, face going alight, “Be right back!”

And before she could take two full breaths, Simon raced into his bathroom and returned, sutures in hand. But his triumphant smile slipped as he stared at the contents of his hand. And despite everything, Clary laughed at her friend.

“You have no idea how to use that do you?”

With a defeated nod, she sat down on the table and patted for him to join her.

After watching her do a few, and taking a few deep breaths to settle his stomach, Simon figured out the process and used his speed to finish the job, finally staunching the bleeding.

Rising, with hands raised to not get blood on anything, they stepped back to admire their work.

Simon released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding since opening the door. He glanced to Clary, but she seemed entranced by the scene before her.

Thread… that was all that held the legendary hunter together. The hunter that had risked everything—  the position he’d worked so hard for, his reputation, his _life_ …

Well over a hundred stitches. And every one of them was her fault. For the blood was on her hands, literally.

Feeling lightheaded and emotionally fatigued at what she had nearly caused—  the death of a son, a soon to be husband, a brother, and a friend—  Clary lowered herself onto the floor. And with her back supported against the soft couch, she drifted off, the sound of Alec’s ragged breathing becoming a white noise above her head.

* * *

 

He doesn’t feel it right away. Can’t feel anything as his senses come to one at a time.

With fluttering eyelids that cause a frenzy of whispers somewhere above him, Alec squints at his surroundings; confused by what he sees. A well lived in, yet clean apartment basked in the pinkish-golden light of a sunrise.

But then he feels it, at the same time his ears ring and the light becomes a burning thing on his sensitive pupils, the receptors surge back on like a jolt of electricity. And he’s panting, slightly convulsing at the overwhelming sensation of scolding pain that laced every fiber of his being.

He raises a shaking hand to touch that source of agony, to try and stop the throbbing that worsened with each beat of his heart. But his hand met only the soft bandages, slightly damp, and tinged maroon.

Alec’s thoughts catch up to him finally, and he remembers where he is. Who’s in the room with him.

Clary takes a step away from Simon, kneeling beside Alec as she brought a cold washcloth to his temple.

“Thank… you both,” Alec whispered. Despite the brutally painful wounds he now bore, his head was clearer than it had been before, and he noticed that his skin was no longer gaunt with severe blood loss.

Clary found it hard to smile, but she nodded seeing that he sounded less hoarse and looked to be a safer distance from death than he’d been throughout the night.

“Alec… I can’t thank you enough. I-I can’t believe you did this for me, you risked everything. And I didn’t even realize it… that you were covering for me.” Shame coated every word; it weighed her down, crushing her posture.

But Alec smiles weakly, “Well good… if I was able to fool you, then everyone else was too.”

She softened at that and heard Simon mutter ‘got that right’ from behind her.

“Hey,” Alec said, worry in his eyes despite everything he was enduring, “you think Jace is the only one willing to make sacrifices for you. Which is why...” He looks down at the complex bandages holding him together, suddenly dizzy thinking of how many stitches it had taken—  how terrible he was for making them go through that. “... I have to turn myself in.”

“What?!” the two exclaim as one.

“I’m sorry, what??” Simon repeats, shaking his head in disbelief. “Am I missing something? ‘Cause from the sound of things, you put on a pretty convincing performance and there’s nothing that ties you to it.”

And Clary can’t believe it, but Alec shakes his head with determination. She places a hand on the couch beside his arm. “Alec, they’ll _kill_ you.”

The larger Shadowhunter gave a grim smile, “Only if I’m lucky.”

She arches her eyebrows in alarm, pulling her hand back, so he explains. “A large portion of the Clave have been waiting a long time to get their hands on me. Torture… that’s what they’ll do to me; for information I have that they’ve always wanted. But if I don’t go now, then when they do find out— and they will— they’ll do the same to everyone I love.”

Clary couldn’t breathe, she felt Simon still behind her.

_The law is hard, but it is the law._

Because Alec was right. It was a matter of time before the Clave found out through their secretive ways that the Creature had not only been sought out by a Shadowhunter, but killed. And a direct order being blatantly violated could not stand. Clary knew that the way the Clave saw it, one person disobeying was a threat to their entire infrastructure. Punishment would be doled out and an example would be made.

The rising fear gave her strength enough to lock with Alec’s blue eyes, “If you turn yourself in, I will too.”

Pure fear flashes across his own face and he makes to speak, but Simon interjects, “She’ll do it.”

Alec stays silent for a long time, studying his hands that rested above the sea of pinkish white. He takes a shaky breath and with a series of sharp groans, hauled himself into a seated position. They both rush forward to help, but with his eyes closed to keep from screaming, he braces both hands beside his thighs.

“Well then… I guess I better get to my meeting.”

“What?”

“People will know something’s wrong if I’m not there. If you won’t let me turn myself in, then I can’t raise suspicion.” Alec couldn’t keep the dread from his voice as he imagined the many steps it’d take to even get to the Institute from here.

Simon clears his throat, “Dude, you’re in like _zero_ condition to be doing _anything_.”

The larger male looks up, “This is the only other choice. So if you can lend me a shirt, I’ll be on my way.”

Simon shakes his head but in a blink of an eye is holding out a black t-shirt. To Clary’s surprise, Alec lets the vampire help to get the fabric on. And they all breathe a sigh of relief at the dark shirt’s ability to conceal the under workings.

As he rises and takes a few experimental steps, swallowing grunts of pain and shaking legs, Clary goes to the door and turns.

“I’m coming with you.”

Once again, Clary is shocked that Alec offers no argument. Watching them disappear down the hall, Simon draws in a deep breath, knowing he won’t be breathing easy for a long time.

* * *

 

Brooklyn—  named for the city from which she had been brought into and stolen from the world—  was everything Khalida was not.

Where Khalida’s eyes needed close scrutiny to see stripes of green through the bland brown, Brooklyn’s were a burst of gold flecked blue. Her face adorned with freckles like stars… she should know, for Khalida had spent countless mornings tracing the constellations placed by angels that graced the smooth olive skin. Oh how Khalida loved to run her hands through that waist length mane of jet black hair that always seemed tangled from her adventures.

Sometimes Khalida could feel it in her daydreams like a phantom limb— as she could now with her eyes closed, basking in the open window. Fingers seemed to be wrapped in her own, but she didn’t open her eyes, for this brief moment of happiness would be massacred the moment she looked down to see, not the poetically stark contrast of olive skin against her pale hand, but to be met with emptiness.

But if they had been there—  those holy fingers and warm palms—  Khalida would have felt their softness. Marveled at those hands that were always velveteen from the copious amounts of lotion Brooklyn incessantly applied to keep them soft for Khalida due to the thick calluses earned proudly through patrols and endless training.

None of it should have worked together—  the dotted skin, blue eyes, and black hair—  but it did; held together by that unwavering confidence that had drawn Khalida to her from the very beginning.

The Shadowhunter lowered her empty rune-swirled arms beside her and slowly opened her eyes to see that reflected in the window, was the beautiful mirror behind her.

A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth at the memory. Brooklyn had been so excited to show it to her, had brought it back from the other side of the world claiming that she had searched the globe for it’s perfection.

Only this one—  etched in gold and weighted down with jewels—  was worthy enough to contain the beauty of her queen, or so Brooklyn had claimed. And she had meant every word.

The memory fills that hole in her chest. But then Khalida is spiraling— too long… she’d been thinking about her for too long. Getting lost in all the memories of sunshine and radiant sand beside the woman she loved.

And when she slammed into the end of that light, deafening screams sliced through her head, impaling her heart. Khalida fell to her knees, gasping for breath beneath the windowsill as the memory threatened to consume her.

Because the carpet beneath her was no longer composed of delicate fibers, but frigid mud that caked her hands as a smell only described as crimson filled her nose and ashes fell into her eyes.

And she crawled through it, through the mud and stench of the memory, towards the mirror as a voice—  speaking through the nightmare of Khalida’s darkest day—  floated towards her.

 

_My love_

 

_Please_

 

_Keep them safe_

 

_I love you_

 

And although it was only an illusion woven by her traumatized mind, Khalida still trembled as she gripped the bottom of the mirror, chanting over and over.

“It’s not real. Not real not real not real.”

But she did not cry. No. Khalida had spent days—   _weeks_ endlessly drowning in tears. Until every rune on her body had felt the liquid grief. But it wasn’t that her eyes were dried up, wasn’t that she had no tears left inside to shed. It was that her heart had stopped feeling. Had been stunned, shocked, in a way that prevented the final step into that darkness.

The kind that one enters, and does not wish to escape.

And so, on shaking legs she rose. Running a hand that was clean of mud and gore along the gold of the mirror—  the only thing she had to remember… _her_ by. She who had stolen Khalida’s heart and soul.

She who had died in Khalida’s young hands all those months ago.

And since the Downworlders responsible had perished in the fires they had created, Khalida hoped that they could see from hell, hoped they were watching as she took a deep breath, smoothed her hair, and strode out of her room—  ready to destroy anyone they had ever loved… and anyone that got in her way.

* * *

 

With sunshine at their glamoured backs, Alec’s brow furrowed in concentration as he worked on his posture and gate to conceal the burning injury that made him want to collapse with each agonizing step.

But Clary, without words, placed a hand on the small of his back to steady him. He focused on the slight pressure, and with it as an anchor, noticed his surroundings halt in their spinning.

He gave a lopsided smile of thanks before stumbling over a raised piece of sidewalk on the empty street. Once recovered but still reeling with pain he rasped, “This– this isn’t going to work.”

Clary quickly concealed any shred of doubt or worry, even though the whimper Alec had just let out still rang in her ears. “Don’t think like that,” she chided before lowering her voice into her best moody Lightwood impression. “‘If you doubt yourself before you begin, the battle is already lost’ that’s what you always blab isn’t it?”

Alec couldn’t hide a devilish grin of which she gladly returned.

“So. What’s my role, Mr. Head of the Institute?”

“You… you need to act like you’re mad at me.”

With a smirk, Clary removed her hand from his back, relocating it onto a hip, “Shouldn’t be too hard.”

The sass did it’s job as she looks over to see Alec’s shoulders relax slightly. But then his expression darkens and he lets out a series of low grunts as they begin to climb the stairs.

“I might ha-have to say things I-I don’t mean, so… sorry,” he grinds out through the pain.

Clary is glad he’s so focused on the steps, because she’s pretty sure the smile in her voice doesn’t reach her face as she climbs beside him.

“Right back atcha.”

* * *

 

The meeting went smoothly, all things considered.

With Alec spending the entirety crouched over the mission plans in his usual manor—  careful not to hunch as deeply as his wounds begged— while the male who was to be mission leader the following morning went over his plans for Alec’s approval.

It was an effort for Clary to twitch with distaste every time Alec spoke, but she played the part well, and knew that everyone in the room was convinced. No one saw through the act nor did they notice that the glares she shot at him and disgust he threw back were faker than Izzy’s cooking skills.

Thankfully, the meeting consisting of Alec, Jace, the mission leader, and she was efficient as all things in the Shadow World were meant to be, and ended after little discussion.

Before they had dispersed, Alec—  while Jace was busy talking to Izzy who’d just strolled in—  came up behind Clary and whispered to meet in his office without being seen.

After which he had swiftly exited. Clary turned, opening her mouth to converse with Jace and Izzy, when the former brushed past her with a quick kiss and hurried out the door.

She turned to Izzy who gave a shrug. They broke into laughter, and Clary was grateful for the break of tension the meeting had brought about. After exchanging evening plans, and the weapons master giving the thousandth apology regarding Alec’s ‘asshole-ness’ as she put it, Clary embraced Izzy and took a roundabout way to the Head of the Institute’s office.

But to Clary’s surprise, Alec isn’t at his desk when she enters and shuts the door behind her.

She walks around the room, admiring the ornate mosaic of glass that cast such beautiful hues across the wood floors. She was contemplating the names of each color and imagining herself coated in paints, lost over a canvas when the door behind her creaks open.

All thoughts leave her as Alec takes a solid step through the door, closing it behind him with effort.

“What took you so long?” Clary questions, the last few minutes of pent up concern filling each word.

But Alec takes another step, this time staggered. His posture instantly crouching as he finally gives in to the pain, and lets out a deep groan, ghosting his hands over the black shirt, needing to alleviate the agony somehow.

When his hand connects with the shirt and the wrapping presses on his wounds, Alec cries out in frustration as he bites through the pain.

“Hey– hey it’s alright just- here sit down,” Clary says, voice instantly softening as she searches for and retrieves a cloth and fresh bandages from the emergency drawer in his desk.

He falls ungracefully into the nearest chair, not having the strength to descend softly or to quiet the yelp as he collided with the cushion.

Clary thanked the angel that the coffee cup on Alec’s organized desk contained water, and she dampened the cloth before returning to his side.

If the situation had been any less serious, Clary would have dropped the cloth and laughed uncontrollably at the sight of Alec pouting like a sad puppy, trying to remove his shirt. But she swallowed the smile and silently helped lift the fabric over his towering frame and muscled arms.

“What happened on your way here?” she asks, trying to keep his mind away from the present as she found the tail end of the bandage and began to unravel it. Her breathes became almost as labored as Alec’s due to having to support most of his weight in one hand so he could sit upright, while unwrapping with the other.

As she continued, the bandage was no longer white, but a deep pink then red; the fabric strip completely soaked through.

Alec closes his eyes, focusing on keeping the embarrassing moans of agony inside, “Jace… he st-stopped me.”

Clary’s hands faltered—  at the words, yes. But also due to the angry lines of flesh that even she could feel throbbing against the intricate stitches. But she made an effort to not show how bad it was that they hadn’t healed more by now, and said quietly but not weakly, “What did he say?”

“He was- agh!” Alec couldn’t hold back the cry as Clary brought the wet cloth to the sensitive mess of his chest. She apologized profusely and begged him to continue. “H-he was mad… at me for- for the meeting.”

“Oh my gosh, Alec I’m so sorry. Are you _absolutely_ sure we can’t tell him?”

Clary could feel his heart skip a beat. “Don’t!”

He rubs the bridge of his nose with a shaking hand to control his breathing. “Let him be mad. Let him hate me.”

And Clary had never hated herself more than that moment. Hated what she was doing to him, to Alec who was so loyal to everyone and deserved none of this— especially not the pain of his parabatai loathing him.

But before she could give some apology that could never contain her absolute regret and guilt, Alec melted into the cushion and began to snore softly.

And as she set to reapplying the bandages, Clary tried to come up with new ways to say ‘Alec I’m sorry’. For Clary was starting to realize she would be saying that until she went insane.

In the empty room with only the ripping of bandage and sound of Alec being drug further into unconsciousness, Clary shrugged at the thought. She would deserve it— going insane— and so much more for what she had done to the man beneath her.  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously thank you so much to everyone who has left kudos, comments, or even just read this <3
> 
> Sorry for the wait, hope you enjoy ;)

 

The next few days went on tense and anxiety ridden, but they came and went. Filled with texts from Simon that read such things as ‘nothing’ or ‘quiet over here’.

Because once Alec had woken from his fitful sleep, the archer had grasped Simons arm with desperation, asking if the vampire could try and reach Magnus.

Not because Alec wished to be relieved from his pain, but because he wanted to warn Magnus and the other Downworlders of what he was starting to put together about Khalida. Bits and pieces he was gathering in his rare moments of downtime that would expose her true intentions—intentions he was realizing she had worked very hard to conceal.

And because Alec was becoming acutely aware of Khalida’s influence in the Clave, he hadn’t told Clary or Simon what he was doing; for fear that they would be harmed for the possibly damning information.

Simon had, of course, accepted the important mission— a duty he fulfilled almost every hour.

Unable to verbalize her frustration into even a sigh, Clary’s gut would wrench with each cryptic message, all conveying the same update: Magnus could not be reached.

Randomly throughout each day, she would send a fire message to the warlock. From the abandoned hallways of the Institute, to the dark alleyways of the city— but they bounced back every time.

Dissolving into thin air, ashes falling to the ground before becoming nothing but mist floating through time and space. But then the paper would reappear in a small burst of flame, descending into her waiting hand.

She figured the reason for each failed attempt was due to the powerful wards the warlocks must have placed around their gathering site. The gathering called to discuss the worrying amount of deaths caused by the Creature.

Clary figured that the meeting was going over a few days past the intended end date because of the news that must have reached them regarding the Creature’s death.

She wondered often what Magnus would think if he knew it was Alec’s doing. If he knew his husband-to-be had been the one to end its life.

The only thing kept constant through the secret chaos— the only thing keeping her sane— was that everyday at 12:00 sharp, Clary met Alec in a pre-discussed location. Where (once positive no one was near) she would go about changing his bandages— burning the old— and discuss anything they’d heard.

Because news had spread about the Creature’s demise; but thankfully it was only rumors that spread through the Institute halls regarding suspects, and none of them containing the true culprit.

And Clary had been able to breathe a little easier each passing day when she would remove and incinerate the gauze, happy that the bandages were completely white now, and that the iratze Alec activated each day was finally beginning to work. Today Clary was to remove the stitches, as they hoped the iratze would take care of the rest now that the demon blood was almost flushed out.

If Jace was beginning to feel anything in the ways of pain through that sacred bond, he didn’t mention it— either due to his continued rage over Alec’s ‘behavior’ towards Clary, or because of the continuous intake of painkillers the archer was self administering (much to Clary and Simon’s protests) to keep his parabatai from detecting anything.

Clary paces inside her bedroom— today’s randevou— and feels her anxiety rise exponentially with each foot fall. _He should be here by now…_

After one more lap across the room and sending another failed fire message to Magnus, she let out a sigh of panic laced frustration and walked out, slamming the door behind her.

The rounds Clary made through the Institute did nothing to quench the anxiousness that quickened her heartbeat. No one had seen Alec since that morning.

She almost collapsed with relief when she saw a shock of blond hair exit the elevators, and she made a beeline for it.

“Jace!”

The Shadowhunter looked around and met the source with an amused grin.

“Hey, Clar– _woah_ easy there.” Runed arms were suddenly wrapped around her waist, catching her mid fall as she flung herself at him, desperate for information. Jace raised a brow at the redhead, “You alright?”

Composing herself and flicking the hair from her face in a facade of ruffled affection and nonchalance, Clary tilted her head with a smile, “Just fine. You seen Alec around?” And remembering to sound sour towards the archer, “I have to clear something with _him_ for tonight’s patrol.”

Jace worked his jaw as that mischievous expression turned darker than the shadows he fought in. But with a shake of his head, the warrior told her that no, he hadn’t seen Alec since leaving that morning for a patrol with some new trainees.

He brushed a light kiss on her hairline and soothed, “He was in meetings all night and then out all morning… probably sleeping. Don’t worry, I’d guess you have at least another hour before having to deal with him.”

The malice in his voice wasn’t the main source of her alarm as Clary promised to see Jace later before rushing to the elevators.

Once the doors slid closed, she yelled curses at the button that wasn’t making the stupid elevator climb the floors faster, no matter how many times she pressed it.

When the doors finally open with a soft ‘ding’ she flew through, speed walking down the empty hall and stopping only once she reached the very end. Facing the beautifully carved wood marking the Institute Leader’s chambers, Clary knocks…

Nothing. She whispers, but only silence answers.

Looking over her shoulder down the empty corridor, her hand disappears into a pocket to retrieve a plain metal key. Once she’d quieted her heart enough to ensure no one is near, Clary jams the key into the door.

Opening it just enough to slip through, she closes it tight and turns around.

She’s met by a welcoming fireplace alight with glowing logs that cast a warm glow onto the ornate carpet… and Alec’s unconscious body contorted amongst it all.

 

* * *

 

Concealing her hands that shook with rage beneath the conference table, Khalida bit her tongue to keep from shouting words that would damn her.

Because while she had garnered an impossibly large following, there were still a handful of high ranking Clave members unaware of the slithering beast lingering beneath their noses.

One such idiot— High Priestess Dumbass as… _she_ used to say— was a man of considerable influence.

And he was getting in Khalida’s way.

But she sat in silence as the weekly meeting of leaders ensued, the gentle sheep waiting patiently to be spoken to by one of the males, all of whom sat blissfully unaware of the wolf in their presence.

Khalida smiled at the thought as she imagined all the ways she could kill the man speaking from the head of the table. She could almost hear the sound his jaw would make if her fist collided with it just so…

A metallic taste suddenly announced itself in her mouth from the immense effort she had to make to remain silent.

“Do you find something amusing, Khalida?”

All present turned to her, for that whisper of a smile still remained, even as she saw red.

Swallowing the taste of liquid power on her tongue, Khalida tilted her head low in submissive apology.

“No Sir,” and she was thankful for all of her experience, because it was the only reason she could now lie through her teeth without a second of hesitation, “you are absolutely correct in saying whoever hunted the Creature did us all a great service.”

He huffed in agreement, “Exactly. Whatever was responsible prevented a headache for for us all. The Downworlder leaders were starting to point fingers, blaming us for their dead. Absolutely ridiculous accusations. We have nothing to do with their world and have no interest in killing them.”

 _Coward,_ Khalida spat in her mind while her head nodded in respectful agreement.

A man seated beside the imbecile voiced out, “There is not a doubt in my mind that they were all killing each other and said that we are responsible in an effort to weaken the Shadowhunter’s trust in the Clave.”

Less than half of the table nodded in genuine agreement, while the others mirrored half a second later.

No one (other than Khalida and her devout) would have picked up on the splitting of loyalty, for it would have taken the same amount of scrutiny as noticing the green in her eyes.

The same eyes that she tilted towards the stream of light filtering through the ornate windows— the embellishments dull as her hair in comparison to the mirror that rest lovingly in her chambers.

She rose as a new stack of documents were passed out and side discussions began regarding the current warlock gathering.

And as they set to pondering, Khalida made her way, unhurriedly, for the carved cherrywood table heavy laden with various fruits and gleaming silver platters.

With her back to the meeting— blocking any wandering eyes— Khalida filled a cup with steaming water. Her hands moved fluidly, her motions effortless, even as a miniature, slender decanter dropped from her jacket sleeve and into her awaiting hand with the flick of her wrist.

With a stir of honey and a moment to rearrange her face into that of a deep apology for her interruption before, Khalida turned.

And to those present, at least to those who had not yet been won, all that was seen was a girl approaching her superior with intentions of peace. For the girl let them see what they wished, allowed them to almost read the guilt sewn into her features that read “I am so deeply sorry for my behavior, please take this as an offering of my gratitude.”

She knew it had worked when that small portion of the room turned their heads with nods of approval, for this girl had learned her place.

And only those loyal to her smiled for a different reason as Khalida stopped at the head of the table and parted her lips with a smile of feminine grace.

“Tea?”

 

* * *

 

Clary lunged for Alec’s body; so motionless on the soft rug, the dark fabric of his clothes breaking up the beautifully ornate pattern of the fibers.

The breathtaking room around her melted away until all she knew was the burn on her knees as she crashed to the ground beside him, kneeling with two fingers pressed to his neck.

“ _Alec_?” she begged. And although he didn’t stir, she settled further into the backs of her feet in relief at the strong, steady beat that pulsed beneath her fingers.

But now that she could quiet the voice in her head that had been shrieking ‘he’s dead!’ she was left to wonder why the hell Alec was on his bedroom floor unconscious.

Removing her touch from his jugular, Clary noticed something strange.

She leaned further over him, red locks of hair brushing against his chiseled jaw, and studied the white marks on his skin that took… twelve seconds… to regain color and disappear.

Tilting her head with narrowing eyes, Clary tested it on his forearm, and again on his fingertips— pinching the skin between her own.

“ _Dehydrated_ ,” she breathed to the empty room.

Clary set his limp wrist back on the ground, suddenly noticing the various bulges in the legs of his pants— specially designed for missions like the one he’d apparently been on that morning.

“Please don’t wake up while I do this,” Clary begged to the archer. She felt her cheeks warm before shaking her head and taking hold of the nearest pocket.

Going down the fabric of each leg, unzipping as she went, Clary finally discovered something more out of place than the portable armory stashed in the pants. She withdrew it from the pocket of his right thigh and held it to the fireplace.

Warm light reflected off the glass vial; nearly empty of it’s contents.

The remaining drops of purplish liquid snagged in her mind as she realized it looked familiar. She quickly scrawled a note from the pad at his bedside and placed it by his unconscious form, before taking another look around the room and racing out; locking the door behind her.

In a matter of minutes, Clary was back at Alec’s side, feeding the unneeded note to the flames (“I’ll be right back, don’t move.  -Clary”).

She checked his pulse again and, happy with it’s steady rhythm, withdrew her cellphone. After only two rings, a voice low and calming flowed into Clary’s ear.

“Clary?” the voice was tinged with alarm that tried to detect any danger.

“Hey Luke, nothing’s wrong. I just have a quick question?” She could hear the breath of relief and the easy chatter of his pack in the background.

“Sure what’cha got for me?”

Clary closed her eyes, picturing the name she had seen scrawled on the box full of identical vials to the one she’d found in Alec’s pocket.

“Have you ever heard of… Sari-sern… S-”

“Serni?” he filled in patiently. But there was something in his voice that made Clary hesitate before confirming that’s what she was trying to ask about.

Luke was silent for a moment before lowering his voice, “Yah… that stuff is no joke.”

Clary gripped her phone tighter and asked— as calmly as possible— for him to please elaborate.

“Well it’s… basically a painkiller for supernatural beings. Strong stuff. I’ve heard some of the other wolves talk about it before, some claim to have tried it for… less practical reasons. But apparently it’s so strong you have to dilute it..."

Clary jumped, almost yelping, as the body beneath her began to stir— curling up on himself more.

“Oh okay, thanks so much. Talk to you later!” She was about to hang up when Luke spoke.

“Hang on there, are you okay? There something you wanna talk about?”

She steadied her tone into one of a more convincing cadence, despite her racing mind, “Everything’s fine, some of the newer guys were asking and I’d never heard of it.”

And by some stroke of luck, he was convinced. “Alright, if you need anything just call.”

She thanked him before dropping the phone as she reached for Alec, whose eyelids were fluttering wildly. Clary retrieved the cup from Alec’s bedside before rushing to his bathroom and returning with a full glass.

It took some maneuvering, but eventually Clary was able to prop his torso up on her chest after getting behind him and sitting on her heels. From there she was able to rest his weak body on her own while lifting the glass to his lips. Her back screamed in protest at the weight it was supporting, but she breathed through her teeth and focused on getting the water into the Shadowhunter’s mouth.

“Shhh,” she cooed when he tried to struggle. “Drink.”

And he did. Not realizing how painfully dry his mouth was until now, Alec drank the glass empty and two more.

When he finally knew up from down and the world stopped spinning, Clary— with screaming muscles— helped him lean against the wall where they sat while Clary tore into him.

“What the hell happened, Alec?! I thought you–it looked like you were–that you–” But she couldn’t say it, wouldn’t finish the sentence for fear it might still come true.

Horrified by what he’d put her through, Alec steadied his gasping breaths and explained everything as the memories became clear from the drought. And he told her everything…

How he kept a stash of the drug in his office desk, meant for emergencies only. How he had been sticking to mundane pills, but at hour four of his patrol that morning, he’d had to leap across a few roofs, causing the pain to rise suddenly in a spike that took his breath away and had him reaching for the vial in a desperate attempt to keep his injuries hidden from Jace.

Alec explained— when Clary opened her mouth to scold his actions— that he knew of the dangers, but since he had to keep with the new Shadowhunters on their first patrol, he couldn’t show weakness or take the time to find water.

So, three hours after drinking the tonic, he’d barely made it into his bedroom before the furniture started spinning, the walls became watercolor, and everything went dark.

Exhausted from the recount and all they had just endured, Alec’s obsidian hair flattened against the wall behind him as Clary set her own head on his broad shoulder.

Neither mentioned the tears that began to seep through one sleeve of Alec’s shirt nor the droplets that fell from a chiseled jaw, like pearls on a marble slate.

 

* * *

 

Too young, they had said.

Too young to join the ranks of the Clave as she had always dreamt. Brooklyn had told Khalida so many times that something ought to be done about the Downworlders that threatened the Shadowhunters. And if she couldn’t battle them all herself, then she was willing to take leadership and help her people from the top echelons of power.

Too young to be a leader, but not to be forced into a suicide mission.

A female, too weak to enforce true order, but not too weak to lead a section of her Institute in a mission destined to fail.

Sweat splashed on the training room floor like drops of blood, as Khalida fought an opponent invisible to the eye but very much present; her emotions.

And she didn’t stop until the burning in her lungs was more suffocating than the lump in her throat. Didn’t lower her seraph blade until her muscles shook from physical exertion alone.

When at last she had returned to her usual state— completely numb to the pain of memories— Khalida, the only survivor of the massacre that awful day, could almost hear the vow she’d made…

To carry on her beloved’s dream. To be a vessel for all Brooklyn had hoped for in the world.

Peace

For all Shadowhunters.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the amazing kudos and comments, I love hearing from you!
> 
> <3 hope you enjoy <3

 

 

“I’m sorry, he did _what_?!”

Clary pulled the phone from her ear at Simon’s crazed rambling that flowed through the line with a wince.

“He could have freaking died! Why didn’t he at least tell one of us he needed help? Why’d he even have the vial _with_ him?! Like what the actual f-”

“Simon!” Clary shouted, cutting him off. “Calm down. I know you’re scared— I was too— but it’s over. He’s doing his best.” And since it had only been a few hours since falling asleep on a shirt wet beneath her cheek, Clary thought to herself, “and everything he’s suffering… it’s all because of me.”

She didn’t realize the words had been actually whispered into the phone until she heard Simon’s voice soften and reach through the line. “Hey, Clary. Don’t think like that. You know Alec, he’d do this for anyone… and I’d bet my freaking eternal life that he doesn’t regret anything that’s happened in the past few days.”

When she didn’t respond, Simon added, “That self-sacrificing, better than everyone without trying, perfect body, dreamy eyed piece of sh-”

“Okay I get it, Simon.”

She laughed softly, the pooling in her eyes drying at the comforting sound of Simon’s voice and the low snoring coming from the other room; where a deathly tired Shadowhunter with locks darker than the void had been hauled into.

And although Clary’s muscles ached, she felt much better having talked to her friend.

“Hey, why don’t we come over for dinner tonight? We could really use a little time away from the Institute.”

“Oh hellll yah, how ‘bout Taki’s? I can order some stuff to the apartment.”

Clary agreed and with a time set, thanked him profusely before pressing the red icon and walking from her spot at the window, further into the main room with a sigh.

She stood in front of the fireplace where the last bits of bandage were turning brown then black, burning to ash that joined the smoldering embers. Looking into the blazing fire she savored the warmth it produced, wrapping her in a warm hug.

But with a mission on her mind, Clary peeled herself from the embrace and was instantly chilled as she strode into the bedroom.

He looked so peaceful beneath the blankets. And since she couldn’t see the fresh wrappings— or the sheen of sweat from having to remove the sutures— Clary could almost imagine he had drifted off on his own accord into a dreamless sleep.

When he was like this, it was easier to deny the reality of the night terrors likely ripping through his unconscious state, the blood and terror wreaking havoc in the expanse of his mindscape.

Because if she looked close enough, Clary could see the random twitch of muscles; could hear the soft whimpers that sounded so alike the noises he had made moments before— during the time before she had called Simon, when Alec had struggled away from her touch even as he slept.

Clary could still hear the noises that she had caused, the pain that had come with each snip and pull of thread.

And as she stood there, resting her rune covered shoulder against the door frame, Clary was taken aback by how young he looked.

Even as he navigated brutal dreams, there were brief moments when his face wasn’t tensed with pain or the insane amounts of stress that came with his position in the Shadow World. Because the safety of his ruined sleep was the only place where Alec didn’t have to _be_ anything, Clary realized.

Didn’t have to feel the crushing expectations and pressure from his parents, the Clave, or the city seemingly built to destroy him despite his love for it.

And Clary was ashamed for all the time she’d spent thinking that this male, only two years older than she, despised her. But what made her insides twist was the thought of how cold she had been in return, when all he ever wanted to do was help those he loved.

Which, the more she thought, included her.

She now saw the stoic exterior for what it was— a shield to prevent anyone from taking advantage of him, and a protection against the assault of emotions when he failed.

Rubbing her sore arms, Clary took a shaky breath before shoving off the door frame and turning her back to the slumbering angel.

With a last look over her shoulder and a whisper of a smile, Clary walked through the main room, across that ornate rug that she’d almost had a heart attack on, and stepped out into the silent hallway.

Ready to become one with the shadows.

* * *

 

 

She spent the better part of an hour traversing the Institute, cloaked in darkness as she tried to gather any intel.

Mostly useless bits and pieces she couldn’t make heads or tails of, until suddenly she sees from her hidden spot across the room, three ruby cloaked Clave leaders stalk out.

Clary felt her blood boil when she saw who was at the front; and when that lithe form that was fluid as a wraith turned, Clary could have sworn it looked straight at her. But she was thankfully mistaken, as a boy behind her shrouded in light nodded and made his way to the red one’s side.

Khalida. She was here.

The boy that joined her… Clary was trying to remember his name, but her mind was still blank from the shock of seeing that unforgiving face so soon after that awful day when Clary had gaped before her.

Clary knew he was a new Clave member that had been sent to New York from Idris a few weeks ago to learn the inner workings of the largest and most vital Institute, as part of a new initiative for the newer members to act as a bridge between the overarching leadership and the warriors.

Clary had never spoken to the boy— knew he mostly observed silently— but she had sensed no threat from him. Even as he kept distant, the actions weren’t that of malicious plotting, but of insecurity.

Clary had noticed that he seemed to be keenly aware that his presence was not profusely welcomed— especially due to his age and inexperience— by those doing the actual work while those in Idris played supernatural politics.

She drifts through the shadows after running her stelle over her mendelin rune,  providing an extra layer of invisibility to get a better vantage point, just in time to hear Khalida speak to the boy.

Although Clary couldn’t make out exact words, they didn’t seem happy— evident in the way the boy’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

Clary distanced herself, waiting until the cloaked trio dispersed and the boy walked quite briskly away. She emerged from the shadows and deactivated her invisibility in an empty hallway before re-entering the busy room of bustling activity.

But she had a clear destination in mind.

Finding him against a quiet wall, watching everything from afar, Clary approached her target.

“Hey, I like your boots.” Clary’s lips spread into a deceptively genuine smile as she pointed to the obviously handmade shoes she’d noticed from the shadows when he had first gone to Khalida.

After the embarrassment he’d suffered, her warmth was welcomed and he returned the smile with a look of pride, “Thanks, made them myself.”

She feigns an impressed gasp before stepping closer, “Someone with such practical talents must be getting pretty fed up with all this,” she waves a slender hand— palm down to conceal the calluses and strength they displayed— around the space where the Clave members were prowling, dispersed like an infestation, “and must be pretty eager to have it all over with.”

He rolled his eyes, “You have no idea. I didn’t join for all this. They aren’t even here on official business, just wanted to make everyone nervous, establish dominance or something stupid like that, I bet.”

He looked her up and down, with no malice or ill-intent in the action, almost as if he was realizing she looked vaguely familiar. “Should be over soon though, Khalida took this all into her own hands to bypass the others’ since that’s what takes too long–everyone having their own opinions. She says her list is narrowed down to three which is good.”

Clary quickly transformed her alarm into a slight giggle, “That’s good to hear. Hey, it was nice meeting you…?”

“Lucah,” he filled in with a smile.

“Lucah. See you around?”

He nodded avidly and with a wave of goodbye, rushed away to bid farewell to the flock of exiting Clave leaders.

They had barely passed through the portal when Clary spun on her heels and as calmly as possible, raced for the stairs.

“Shit shit shit shit…”

* * *

 

 

As she careened up the stairs, taking two at a time, Clary slowed. Because in her racing mind, she was realizing that it wasn’t a good idea to spring all this on Alec so soon after…

_Hey Alec so I know you just almost, yah know… died… but guess what I just found out?? This ain’t over yet!_

The thought made her cringe violently and she stopped at the next landing to think. Just as she leaned against the railing though, her phone chimed with a notification.

‘feast on it’s way. still good 4 tonight?’

Clary pressed a hand to her temple that was lightly haloed with beads of sweat. Looking at the clock on her phone, she made a decision.

‘sounds good. b there soon’

Because if she was going to ruin Alec’s day, she could wait until he’d had a relaxing night away from all this chaos.

With her heart now at less risk of imploding from the thought of giving Alec some peace, Clary pushed off the wall and made her way, once again, to that intricate door.

As her knuckles rapped against the grain, her body tensed with each passing millisecond of silence, relaxing only when she hears the shuffling of feet and sees movement in the door handle as he grasps it from the other side.

Without words, he unlocks it and Clary slides inside.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, unable to hide the twinge of worry there.

With his back still to her he looks out into the hall before closing the door. “Good. Thanks for letting me sleep.”

But when he turns to face her, Clary takes a step back. He looked _terrible_. Shoulders hunched, he looked to her with dark ringed eyes beneath a pain furrowed brow.

“Alec-”

“Don’t worry,” he said putting an arm out with a noticeable wince in an effort to calm her. Too much of her stress had been caused by him already, a fact that hadn’t been lost on him despite his own.

“How can I- what can I do to make this better? Are you in pain?” She couldn’t help but wring her hands as the anxiety threatened to rise at the sight of his unending suffering.

Alec staggered to a nearby chair beside the fireplace and pointed to the door across the space that led to his bedroom. “Stelle…”

Clary quickly retrieved it, placing it in a scarred hand. Struggling to reach the iratze on his left flank by himself, Clary came forward to help.

After propping him up and activating the rune, she gently lowered him back into the cushion’s embrace. Slowly, the signs of almost bruised under eyes and pain dulled to that of slight discomfort.

Taking a deep breath of relief, Alec glanced at Clary sheepishly, “Thanks. I’d just woken up, couldn’t reach it myself when you knocked. Did you…” he ghosted a hand over what was now a dull throb.

Clary nodded, “Yah I took the stitches out while you were sleeping, figured it would hurt less that way.”

“Thanks… really. That was nice of you.”

She knew how big a deal it was for Alec to strip himself so bare and offer praise like this to anyone other than Magnus. She took his hand in her own.

“You’re welcome. How are you _actually_ doing?”

He scrunched his brow and she thought it might be the pain resurfacing, but realized he was just thinking.

“To be honest, I need to get out of here. Constantly having to watch every breath I take…” he got a far off look before snapping back to Clary’s eyes, “not that I have a problem with doing so, I just meant th-”

“Relax Alec, I understand. I don’t blame you one bit. And lucky for you,” she released his hand and rose to drop in a mock bow, “I have a reservation for dinner with a vampire in a half hour, and you’re my plus one.”

“That would be amazing,” he said, slowly getting to his feet. “But what about keeping up appearances here?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve been setting up a story all day. You have top secret Head of the Institute matters to attend to, and I am taking the night off to see Simon.”

Alec had to admit, he was impressed. And he couldn’t put a name to the feeling of someone else doing the planning besides him for once.

“Wow, nice. Only one problem though… ”

Clary froze, going over her scheme for any holes, but found none.

“... Shadowhunters don’t get to take nights off.”

Clary rolled her eyes with a huff. “Well this one does,” and after placing a hand on her hip, “and if anyone has an issue with that, they can talk it over in the sparring room.”

The mock seriousness, the sass, the tilt of her hip— Alec was still in fits of laughter as he shrugged a black coat on and reached for the door handle.

“Yah,” he huffed. “I’d pay to see that.”  

* * *

 

 

Although the moonlit city around them was bustling with life, Clary had never been more relaxed. Honking cars, yelling people, a slight biting breeze caught in the tunnel of buildings— but the chaos was comforting. It reminded her why she did what she did, it gave her purpose. Because who else was going to protect a bunch of New Yorkers?

Alec was his usual self, all things considered. Slightly hunched at the wind and vaguely numbed pain, yet he stood proud as he breathed the city in deeply.

Since she was studying the purely relaxed composure— a rarity that she knew might never be seen again— Clary noticed as Alec’s lips began to twitch until his head bowed and mouth parted in a laugh, those perfect teeth gleaming in the neon lights of each storefront they passed.

Clary was about to ask what had caused such a reaction, when Alec spoke, his crinkled eyes crystal as he was reminded of a memory.

“Magnus… on our second date, he took me to Zurich, Switzerland. I’d always wanted to see it. But when we got there, I absolutely hated it. Not the city itself or the people even, just the… silence. Before then I’d always thought I liked to be quiet, but I realized that what I really loved was to _listen_ . I told Magnus after walking for a while, afraid he’d laugh at me, but he didn’t say anything as he portaled us to Tokyo. That’s the first time I realized— when I truly understood that Magnus actually loved me. But not for being a Shadowhunter or for my position at the Institute, he didn’t care about any of that. He just loved and cared for _me_.”

Clary had no words for the flush face above her, nothing to say other than she was honored that he’d shared that with her. He ran a hand through his hair, wincing slightly at the stretching of his chest.

“I just… I miss him _so_ much…” but he stopped himself, suddenly looking down at Clary with slightly widened eyes, “I-I’m sorry. That was inappropriate.”

Clary couldn’t object fast enough. A fresh wave of white rage crashed into her for how the Clave had forced it’s warriors to swear away emotion, how they treated feelings as a weakness and something to be ashamed of. But it was too late, his smile had slipped and Clary could almost hear him rebuilding the walls around his heart and mind. But then she got an idea.

“You must be pretty excited for the wedding, huh?”

That seemed to do the trick. Alec’s features instantly brightened as he grinned ear to ear.

“Oh you have no idea.”

They were discussing flower arrangements for the reception when at last the two Shadowhunters found themselves at the steps to Simon’s apartment building.

Feeling lighter than he had in a long time, Alec opened the door and with a low bow ushered Clary out of the cold night air.

* * *

 

 

Warm candlelight filled the room, casting shadows over the feast before them.

Seated comfortably around the circular table, Simon and Clary chatted in the relaxed manner of old friends as Simon sipped from a coffee mug that definitely didn’t hold caffeine, and Clary swallowed forkfuls of her meal.

As the redhead gave a detailed recount of a summer camp long ago where Simon had fallen off the dock and gotten bit by a snake (foreshadowing, Clary declared), Simon noticed the empty plate in front of Alec.

“Hey man, this stuff isn’t gonna eat itself.” He nudged a container with steam billowing from the top towards the larger male, “I heard you Shadowhunter dudes eat a lot and I know those muscles aren’t rune magic so…”

Alec glared at him but eventually gave in with a sigh, “Whatever. I’m not that hungry though.” He was about to reach for the box when he stopped and turned to Clary, “You sure you don’t want this?”

Realizing he wasn’t going to eat anything for fear of _starving_ her, Clary took one last spoonful of pasta from a nearby container then spread her arms above the table covered with various foods. “It’s all yours.”

It was an effort for Simon and Clary to keep talking without stopping to watch as Alec ate. The pasta in Clary’s stomach felt heavy as she realized how starved _he_ must’ve been to be able to clear the table, emptying each container.

Once the trays and cartons were thrown away, and Simon had drained a few cups of plasma, they all convened in the living room. Neither Simon nor Clary missed seeing the wide berth Alec gave the leather sofa as he made his way to one of the plush chairs.

As Simon took a spot on the couch, Clary remained standing. “So… I have some news… ”

Unable to bring herself to meet Alec’s eyes, she began to pace in the small living room even as she felt Alec’s laser focus on her with each nervous step.

“...three Clave leaders came by the Institute while you were asleep and… Khalida was one of them.” Simon muttered a curse as a hand ran through the hair on his lowered head. But before Alec could speak, Clary continued, “You know that kid, the new Clave trainee?”

Without waiting for a response, she told them everything Lucha had said. And when she finally got out that Khalida apparently had narrowed to three suspects, the male Shadowhunter who had been shifting in his seat, froze.

Because what Clary and Simon didn’t know was that Alec had been informed, during one of the many meetings the previous night before his morning patrol, that one of the highest ranking Clave members— a man of considerable influence when he chose to wield it— had fallen gravely ill.

No identifiable symptoms other than a deterioration of lung function and heart rate. A severe heart attack made worse by a genetic lung disorder the man had— or at least that’s what had been written on the official report sent to every Head of Institute. A report that also detailed that the Silent Brothers were on their way to provide any assistance. The report was optimistic of a complete recovery.

But Alec knew that was complete bullshit.

He knew the man would not recover, and that the illness wasn’t due to natural causes. Because following that efficiently brief meeting, Alec had gone straight to his office and, within the hour, retraced the dying man’s day up until the report was time stamped.

A few random happenings— nothing involving any other Shadowhunters or Clave members— until… 4:30 where a recurring entry on his calendar read ‘Clave Leader Weekly Meeting’. And, after pulling up the list of the meeting attendees (of whom were all the highest ranked below the man himself, and a few others higher than he that he met with on Fridays) Alec found what he was looking for.

There it was, clear as day. The darkness of the font unable to contain all that came with the name it spelled.

Khalida

And in that moment, Alec knew that she was behind it all. It all lined up in his organized brain; the previous year’s sudden deaths within the Clave that someone had worked so hard to cover up, the Creature’s success and blind eye turned towards it’s attacks against everyone but the nefillum, and now this.

One more dead body added to her list. But to her, Alec assumed the fresh kill would be considered nothing more than one more obstacle out of her way.

Alec’s current theory was one that kept him up at night, almost more than the raging pain from his chest. His theory had Khalida as a Shadowhunter who had risen unprecedentedly— through poison and murder— to a top seat in the Clave where she had but one goal; eliminate the Downworlders… and anyone that got in her way.

The only thing he couldn’t figure out was _why_ , and how he was supposed to convince a clearly corrupted system of her crimes.

That would all have to wait though, because from what Clary had gathered, Khalida had found her next threat— one of the three suspects. And if Clary was one of them, then Alec would have to hope he was too.

He took a deep breath, coming to terms with what he had to do. Working through the plan in his mind. _Just like any other mission… you’ve done this a thousand times_ he thought to himself in attempt at calming his overworked nerves.

During the time he’d been so lost in thought, Alec had shifted in the chair. He now leaned over the edge, elbows propped on his knees as his hands went limp, almost touching the floor. Clary tried to read his thoughts or even just see his reaction, but those eyes of oceanic blue were hidden behind the void of hair that fell in his face as he stared at the ground.

“Alec?” Simon whispered after making eye contact with Clary’s concerned face.

The Shadowhunter instantly relaxed his posture, leaning back into the chair with a grunt. “I don’t know what to do. I’m sorry.”

The three stayed silent until he spoke again while rising to his feet, “I will look into this first thing tomorrow and let you both know what I find.”

Simon too rose at the sight of Alec shrugging his jacket on. “You leaving so soon?”

Alec nodded even as Clary tried to object. “Thanks so much for dinner, I need to head back though. Painkillers wearing off…”

At that, their expressions softened. With chiding from both to take it easy on the pills and a hug from each (much to his surprise), Clary and Simon walked him to the door and waved him goodbye from the threshold.

Alec kept the smile on his face until he was a few blocks away, his excuse still ringing in his ears.

Yes the painkillers were losing their effect, but the pain beginning to radiate from his chest was nothing compared to the agony trapped in his heart that grew with each beat as he withdrew a cellphone from his pocket, dialing a number.

“New York Head to Idris command center.”

_“Speak”_

Alec hesitated, wondering what Magnus was doing; wishing he could see those beautiful golden eyes.

“I have a message for Khalida.”

_“Recording”_

But there was no time left, Alec wouldn’t allow anymore suffering. Even though he didn’t count his own.

“I did it.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Let me know what you think <3

Clary let out a yawn as she walked back to the Institute; a luminous sunrise rubbing her back. She had accidentally slipped into a blissfully dreamless sleep on the sofa shortly after Alec had left.

Although only having gotten a few hours of rest, she felt refreshed. Not just physically though. Getting to see a real smile on Alec’s face had been so beyond amazing. And their conversation about Magnus— his words and eyes filled with childlike excitement— had warmed her soul.

A cheerful melody flowed into her head and out of her mouth as she strolled through the peaceful city that seemed sedated by the fresh dawn of morning. Sure everything was going to hell, but Clary was determined to enjoy any moment of light to the fullest.

Her mind drifted to Alec and she hoped he’d gotten a good nights sleep as well. She had caught him a few days ago running his stelle over the iratze to remove those dark circles beneath his eyes, and after that, his stamina rune. She’d laid into him for that one and forced him to take a nap.

“Warriors don’t take naps,” had been the best argument he could concoct, which had worried Clary despite her laughter.

She was just making her way up the imposing stairs of the Institute— steeling her nerves for whatever the day might throw at her— when suddenly the front doors swung open and a figure appeared in the dim light of the doorway.

Clary’s heart skipped a beat, her mind producing images of Khalida out of fear, making her appear as the shadow cloaked figure at the entrance.

But as she got closer and, blinking the sun’s reflection out of her eyes that had cast itself onto the gleaming surface of the Institutes stone front, Clary realized the female was definitely too tall and had flowing hair too long to be Khalida.

“Clary!”

“What’s up Izzy?” Clary said with a sigh of relief, thankful it was her friend.

“I’ve been waiting for you, was up all night sorting through the armory and found something I know you’ll love!” Clary winced at the high octaves coming from the excited warrior, but couldn’t help the growing smile as they embraced. “How was Simon?”

“Can’t wait to see. Simon’s good, you know he was asking about you?” Clary threw a suggestive wink beside her as they strode through the halls to the armory.

As they talked about everything and nothing, Clary couldn’t help but miss the warm morning sun that had been replaced by cold air radiating from the wood and stone interior that caused bumps to rise upon her arms.

She had never realized how dark the Institute was. _Could use some artwork_ , she thought to herself as they strode through the halls.

Finally at the armory, Izzy swung the massive doors wide, leaving them open as she made her way to the table at the room’s center; it’s metal surface illuminated by fluorescent light.

Clary looked around at the immaculately organized space, pure awe written across her features.

“Thank you very much,” Izzy said in regards to the expression.

“Iz, this is amazing,” Clary gasped. “It was a mess before.”

Izzy beamed with pride. The job had taken days, work she had welcomed to distract herself from the growing tension between her brother and friends. Truthfully, she hadn’t slept soundly since Jace had taken her aside and told her through a clenched jaw of the meeting, and of how Alec had treated Clary.

She knew her brother would never do something like that, knew that he always did what was best for others, but this… Izzy had been trying to ask Alec about it, figure out what was really going on, but every time she turned to talk, he was gone.

Despite the underlying exhaustion and worry, Izzy flipped her glorious mane of hair behind a runed shoulder with a smile.

“Nothing some polish and shelves can’t fix.”

Clary laughed, “and one bad ass Shadowhunter weapons master.”

Izzy bowed her head before rounding the table, “At your service.”

Now across from Clary, she brought the redhead’s attention to the table top, and the gleaming piece of weaponry atop it. Realizing it looked to be an ordinary Seraph blade— beautifully lethal, yet the norm— Clary scrunched her brow in confusion.

Izzy smiled as she took the handle in her elegant fingers and flipped it over. Clary’s eyes widened, mouth opening with a sigh of wonder.

“I know right,” Izzy said to the speechless girl.

Clary couldn’t take her eyes from it. Because this side of it’s handle— it was not one of wrapped leather or plain metal— but of intricately placed miniature diamonds sunk into the Ademas in a way that created an image.

“Pretty cool huh? I’ve never seen anything like it, a blade with diamond wings on it’s handle…” As Izzy spoke, Clary reached out to touch it, but Izzy held out a hand of her own. “Wait, I haven’t shown you the best part.”

Clary withdrew her arm, allowing Izzy to lift the blade and point to the very bottom of it’s handle. Clary leaned closer to see that a gem, red as her hair, had been placed there.

Izzy touched the ruby, and it disappeared, allowing a hole to appear. She reached for the stelle at her hip and slid it inside after which the gem reappeared, safely concealing the stelle.

“Okay, that’s freaking amazing,” Clary admitted.

“I know right!” Izzy repeated. “I’ve heard stories of the Iron Sisters making all sorts of crazy things in their spare time, but I never thought I’d see one.”

She touched the ruby again and retrieved her stelle. With sad eyes, Izzy extended the blade across the table. “I want you to have it.”

Clary stared from the glittering diamonds to Izzy with confusion, “What? Iz, no way! You deserve it.”

But the taller hunter didn’t return Clary’s smile, only looked blankly at the contents of her hand, with what Clary was realizing looked like guilt weighing her angelic features down.

“No, Clary. I want you to have it… as a sorry for the way Alec treated you-”

Clary’s stomach turned to lead, but before she could think of a way to interject, Izzy froze. Clary saw her guilt turn to curiosity at something behind Clary’s head. Turning, Clary saw that through the open door, dozens of Shadowhunters were racing through the hallway.

Placing the weapon into one of the tables drawers and locking it, Izzy rushed to the doorway, Clary at her flank as she grabbed an arm of the nearest nefellum.

“What’s going on?” Izzy demands.

The male, barely a child, looks up at her red lips and says with fear on his tongue, “They’re taking him.”

Izzy smiled patiently and opened her mouth to ask for an answer to her question that was a little more detailed, but Clary instantly understood.

As horror threatened to suffocate her, she pushed her way down the pact hall, breath that of a racehorse, as a million nightmares set fire to her core.

_no no no please no they can’t know please don’t let them they can’t take him please please no–_

But her thoughts were massacred, her mindscape completely frozen, along with the blood in her veins. For as she rounded that final corner and burst to the front of the gathering— so much more chaotic than the meeting all those days ago— she saw him.

Held roughly between two guards, flanked by four more— all smiling like hyenas who’d caught a lion— Alec found her eyes. And his own of oceanic blue spoke to her.

_It’s alright. Everything is alright. You are safe._

Safe. Yes, she was safe. But as Khaldia emerged from behind her wall of guards, sneering down at Alec, Clary realized the same could not be said of Alec.

“Alexander Lightwood,” she echoed into the crowd, silencing the chattering. “You are hereby stripped of your title, Head of the New York Institute, and hereby under arrest for your blatant disobedience of a direct order.”

The hall went silent. Not a soul breathed. Not a foot stepped forward. Not even Izzy or Jace, who Clary felt were behind her.

“You will answer for your crimes however the Clave leaders deem appropriate.”

Izzy gasped and Jace shifted his weight, but still no one moved forward. Clary could have strangled them all. Pride be damned, she would die before letting Alec sacrifice himself for her sake.

When Khalida turned, motioning the guards to follow her and they prodded at him to rise, Clary ripped through her daze of fear.

“Stop! I knew about it!” She yelled above the deadly silence. Khalida turned, eyes narrowing at the source of objection. Jace gripped Clary’s arm, whispering at her to be silent, but she would not. Tearing her arm from his grasp she stepped towards the other young woman. “Alec came to me after the meeting, apologized and said he could make it right.”

She fought to keep the lies spilling with confidence, murdered the desperation and rising hysteria before it could take hold.

But Khalida looked to Alec, analyzing his face for any reaction to Clary’s ‘admission’. He had none. His face was a sheet of stone. Until he parted his dry lips and rasped, “You think that I would kill for you? You are nothing to me, Clary. A pathetic mundane that has tried over and over to earn her place with the nefilim. Well you can’t _Clary_ . You are not one of us, and you never will be. Yes, I killed the beast. Not to help _you_ ,” he jerked his chin to the robed woman above him, “but to hurt _her_.”

Clary’s mind whirred, trying to keep up with his angle, even as the fake words tried to dig in their phantom claws.

Khalida stilled, her too bright smile slipping as he continued.

“I saw how you looked at Clary when she spoke of the Creature. While I don’t blame you, it was not hatred for Clary you had. No… it was the look of a Shadowhunter about to watch their favorite blade be shattered.”

Realizing that this male was threatening her with knowledge of her true intentions, Khalida snapped at the guards to grab him and follow her out. But Alec yelled out through the prods and rough hands, “It told me things! About you Clave _leaders_ .” And he continued despite the hidden punch to the face from a guard, “I’ve been learning about you too, _Khalida_.”

He smiled through bloodied teeth even as Khalida’s own smile turned something truly grotesque. She strode up to the bound hunter, adjusting his jacket as she leaned into his ear and breathed.

“You truly wish to die. Trying to scare me into killing you because you might know a thing or two?” Her voice lowered an octave, “We cannot have that now can we? I have so much in mind for you, Mr. Lightwood.”

And as they hauled Alec through the portal, Clary screamed and thrashed against Jace and Izzy’s hold. The muffled cries that escaped her hand that was clasped over her mouth gave way to tears that stung her soul.

Not for the words he had said— as those gathered believed they fell for— but because Alec now faced something worse than death.

And it was all her fault.

* * *

 

 

Morning light streamed through the open windows, illuminating the floor in stripes as the vacuum ran atop the hardwood surface. Sure he could use his speed, but Simon enjoyed these little moments of peace when he could feel like a mundane, like the human he used to be.

Simon laughed at the thought. If he were still human, there’s _no_ way he’d be doing chores— let alone enjoying them— and he definitely wouldn’t have been able to afford an apartment in the city.

Setting the vacuum down, he strode into the kitchen to see if the bread he’d attempted was rising. He heard the buzz of his phone, but took a minute to carefully place the towel back over his loaf pan before heading back to the main room.

He settled into the couch with his feet on the coffee table, picking up his phone. He almost dropped it at the sight of a notification filled screen.

Missed calls and unread texts— all from one person.

But before he could read any of them or listen to the voicemails, there was a pounding at the door. The illusion of being a normal human chilling in his apartment completely vanished as he sped through the door, almost tearing it off its hinges as he swung it open.

A shock of red hair stumbled inside and Simon closed the door before spinning around. And he had no jokes, no words of comfort, no… nothing… as his best friend collapsed to the ground on shaking hands and knees. Clary met his eyes with puffy red ones of her own, and spoke with a distant voice so hoarse it was unsettling.

“She took him… Khalida, sh-she took Alec.”

Despite only knowing him, really _knowing_ the Shadowhunter for one night, tears slid from Simon’s pale jaw as he lowered himself beside Clary.

Raw with anguish and pure emotion, his cold touch was frigid on her burning skin, but she didn’t move from his embrace. Simon cleared his throat to say something, anything. But Clary curled further into his shirt, feeling her unrecognizable voice echo in his chest.

“Call them. Call Jace and Izzy.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there!
> 
> So I really wanted Magnus to be in this update but it was getting longer than I wanted so he'll be in the next one, promise :)  
> Thanks for all the kudos and comments, I truly love hearing what you all think! Instantly brightens my day <3
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy!

 

 

Rough fabric scratched against Alec’s slightly throbbing face as a bag was ripped from his head.

He only got a split second to take in his surroundings— the nondescript cell and lack of a light bulb— before the four men, who had carried and dumped him on the floor, made a hurried exit through the door.

Slamming the thick metal behind them, they blocked the light away, creating an impenetrable wall between him and what had looked to be firelight from wall mounted braziers just outside his cell.

Feeling the cold bite of chains, Alec became more aware of his current position on the ground despite his blindness in the now pitch black enclosure.

Shackles bound each wrist and ankle, the metal a strange weight that rubbed against every scar or blank spot of flesh. His long legs and knees began to ache from the crunched position the chains had forced him into— kneeling, back crunched over, face almost in the dirt, arms splayed to either side by the long yet taught chains attached to each corner of the room.

He tried to move in an attempt to alleviate the discomfort. With much effort and breaths that turned shallow, he was able to successfully straighten his back slightly— not upright completely, but in a steep hunch that minimally reduced the screaming of his spine and was a little less painful on his almost fully healed chest.

But that was the end of his victory, the extent of his freedom.

Alec stared blindly into the darkness, feeling his brows scrunch in confusion, the movement causing the dull throb from his head pulse in defiance.

_A nightmare?_

He wasn’t sure, couldn’t be. Not when he had spent so many years and countless nights in the clutches of night terrors.

All he could do was wait. To wake up or to experience something that convinced him this concerning situation, this pain, was reality.

He’d been in more vivid dreams and nightmares than this before. Alec was no stranger to night terrors. No stranger to jolting awake, moonlight illuminating the thick layer of sweat that clung to his every muscle, clamping a shaking hand to his mouth to keep from screaming and waking up Magnus who slept beside him unaware. How many times had he been drenched in the blood of his loved ones, having been too weak, too slow, too late to save them, then in the blink of an eye been in his bedroom beside Magnus?

Enough times to know that without interactions or stimuli— none of which this empty and dark cell provided— nothing could be done

Besides, his head hurt and mouth had a metallic taste— almost like he’d been punched in the face— making the past few hours he’d been conscious a bit blurry. The memories were coming back in fragments at a time; walking back to the Institute from dinner with Simon and Clary… pulling his phone out and dialing a number… but the memories were slow to come back and he had nothing to do while they did.

So Alec waited.

In the dark invasive humidity and coarse dirt beneath aching knees, he waited.

* * *

 

 

Clary and Simon said nothing as they stood in the center of Alec’s bedroom at the Institute, just let their flurry of words and apologies of secrecy echo through the room.

Now, having confessed everything, Clary was worryingly still at Simon’s side. He searched for her eyes beneath that captivating veil of hair, only to find that the detached gaze was focused on one thing–the beautiful carpet.

Simon didn’t have to wonder where her mind had gone. Didn’t need to, because he was in the same place. He knew she was seeing Alec sprawled on that same carpet, looking (as Clary had recounted to Simon after it had happened, and to the others only moments ago) as if he were dead. And Simon knew he wasn’t the only one concocting “worse case scenarios” in his shell-shocked mind.

 _Where had they taken him? Can they get him back? What… what are they doing to him? And where the_ hell _is Magnus?_

Feeling like he might explode, Simon opened his mouth to voice one of the questions they were all asking themselves. But, upon lifting his gaze from the carpet, Simon closed his jaw. Because the other two seated Shadowhunters seemed imprisoned by their minds, and Simon could tell they needed a few moments to absorb everything Clary and he had just crushed them with.

The fact that they hadn’t realized the act, hadn’t even caught on to the fact that Alec had been within a breath of death multiple times in the past few weeks.

Simon watched flames dance in the reflection of Izzy’s blank eyes as she stared at the eternally blazing fireplace like she wanted to jump in. Clary, coming out of her haze, shook her head and went over to the beautifully carved wooden desk against the wall. She scrawled out a fire message— her hand moving fluidly as she wrote out those now familiar words. And that equally familiar feeling clamped her lungs when it failed to send, bouncing back into her awaiting hand that trembled slightly.

Simon tried to give her a smile, but knew it failed just as much as the letter. He squeezed Clary’s shoulder lightly just to let her know she wasn’t alone, before walking into the adjoining room to make a few calls. Raphael and Luke needed to be informed of the situation, and Simon hoped that they might have a way to contact Magnus.

The moment Simon disappeared into the other room, a voice that was on the verge of tears flowed through the silence.

“I knew.”

Izzy looked up at Clary with desperation that begged forgiveness that she didn’t deserve. She had neglected him, her brother. And now she might never see him again.

Seeing the rising anxiety in her friend, Clary took a step closer reaching a hand out. “Iz, this isn’t your fault.”

But Izzy shook her head, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You don’t understand. I knew something was wrong… I could tell he was off but I just-but I-I-”

From the other room, Simon took a deep breath and made his way back, all eyes slowly rising to his.

The vampire was glad to have some sort of good news to relay, feeling the tension radiating from them all, and hearing the rapid heartbeat of Izzy.

“Called Luke and Raphael. Luke says his pack is indebted to Alec… some sort of secret mission he did a few months ago to help them… apparently it was a pretty big deal. Anyway, he says one of them has a warlock contact and is leaving right now to personally get Magnus.”

Clary allowed the news to thaw her core slightly.

If they had Magnus back, finding Alec would be a whole lot easier. But she was also slightly… nervous. Something she never would have anticipated feeling towards the warlock, despite his irrefutable power. But as the days had passed during Alec’s slow recovery, Clary had begun to realize that she had never seen Magnus truly _angry_. Nothing ever seemed to get under his skin or penetrate that suave, cool-calm-and-collected manner of his.

But they could deal with that later, _if_ he ever did show up.

After throwing Simon a look of eternal thankfulness, she turned to the others. Jace was staring at the floor, head bent, arms resting on his legs which Clary instantly recognized as Alec’s favorite thinking pose.

Jace had been focusing so hard on the bond, straining to feel _anything — _the slightest emotion or physical pain— that when it finally happened, he nearly fell off his chair.

He clutched his chest as what Jace had long ago learned to identify as his parabai’s feeling of controlled fear— rare as it was— jolted through his veins, taking the breath from his lungs, before simmering into a wary, on-edge nervousness.

The others’ were instantly at his side, asking if he was alright and what he’d felt.

Catching his breath after the near heart attack inducing amount of emotion, Jace’s gaze became unfocused and his words seemed muffled as if he were underwater.

“Alec… he-he’s terrified.”

* * *

 

 

Just as the last pieces of memory we’re emerging from the fog of his head injury, just as he was able to recall everything that had led him to this dark cell, the exhaustion of it all caught up to him and Alec drifted off.

As he did, his last thought was one of realization: if he was falling asleep, then this must be reality. He never fell asleep in dreams, or night terrors. But, lacking the energy to worry about it, he succumbed to the darkness of his mind; the obsidian night of his subconscious that was much darker than that of the unlit cell.

Alec was even more convinced that he was experiencing reality upon awakening. Not to the soft bed beside his beloved, but chained to the ground— a dagger pressed to his face.

From the rare safety of his dreamless sleep, Alec hadn’t noticed anyone enter the cell nor heard the door open or close. And yet here she was.

Illuminated by the soft glow of a flickering candle placed by the exit— announcing herself only with the sliver of cold metal placed upon the skin of his left cheekbone— Khalida stood before him.

“Sleep well, Mr. Lightwood?”

If not for the blade that now moved, hovering a hair width above flesh and flirting with blindness, Alec would have interpreted the words as an innocent question from a kind hearted young woman.

But, as it was, he said nothing.

“Ah, the silent treatment. I have heard of your reputation for being the calmest, the quietest unless necessary… let’s just say, I hope to change that…”

Her words were carried on the warm air that pushed against every inch of his body, and the blade was almost welcomed— the coolness of it’s touch— except for that it was now resting with slight pressure against his burning skin.

“....because I also know you have a wealth of knowledge. You carry with you information not meant to be held.”

If the blade had come any closer, been drawn any further to the right, he would have needed to learn how to look at Magnus with one eye. And Alec had barely been able to take in all that was his soul mate with two functional eyes.

Although it continued to slide, reflecting candlelight against it’s polished edge, Khalida’s tone softened.

“Let me ask you a question; you save everyone… but Alec, who saves _you_?”

Despite being chained like an animal beneath this monster, Alec wanted to laugh at Khalida’s voice, at how it was filled with shards of genuine concern. But the blade was close, so close to him having to make his wonderings of blindness a reality.

It was all he could do to suppress his lungs and send a threat to his heartbeat to stay still. His insatiable lungs demanded the suffocatingly grimy air, but he didn’t move a millimeter as she continued speaking, the metal cold within the folds of his skin that she began to part— one layer of tissue at a time.

Alec jolted, instinctively trying to bring a hand to the growing wound and fight back, but he was held firm by the shackles that bound his chafed limbs. Khalida didn’t seem to care as she continued tracing the line beside his eye, watching the stream escape from beneath the blade and travel along his cheek, drip from his jaw.

“Everything you do is to protect. You remind me of my–” Suddenly, Khalida paused her hand, lost in those blue irises that were so familiar, looked just like…

Khalida closed her own eyes as she took half a step back, the glistening dagger slick in her raised hand as warmth flowed onto the handle and beneath her fingers. Shaking her head, she trained her steady gaze to the male beneath her.

“I know you are not likely to believe me, but we have the same motivation. Everything I have done is for the one I loved.”

With the blade now a safe distance away Alec let out a wet cough, blood sliding into his eye and mouth as the chains rattled in the dim light.

Alec wasn’t sure what came over him— the pain in his legs and back… and now his face— making it hard to think. But he bared his bloodied teeth at her, shook violently against the chains before lowering his head. Alec stared up at her through hair that gleamed with sweat with eyes of piercing blue. A wolf gazing upon a wolf.

“He would be ashamed of you,” Alec growled, voice slicing through the stream that flowed down his throat.

She turned from that gaze, even as she felt it burn at her back. But Khalida simply bent down, retrieving the lonely candle as her voice, barely a whisper, flittered delicately through the humid air.

“ _She_ would have stained the world crimson by now… and I,” she set the blade down, selecting one of needle like precision before turning around with a lowered gaze, “would have been beside her the whole way.”

Khalida brought the candle to her lips, and that slowly growing smile— those advancing steps and the fresh weapon swinging at her side— were the last thing Alec saw as she blew out the flame.

* * *

 

 

The past hour played like a film as Clary rushed through the hallway.

The images of Jace— on the ground writhing and screaming as he clutched his eye, his chest and legs— on a continual loop.

Finally it had stopped, and Jace was left limp with exhaustion, swallowing gulps of air as the pain echoed through his nerves and dissipated.

But the warrior had crawled to the nearest wall and hauled his shaking form into a crouched stand, batting away the others’ hands that tried to stop him from shuffling towards the door.

“Jace, where are you going?” Izzy had whispered. Clary didn’t think she had ever heard the warrior sound so soft.

Izzy had explained to Simon and Clary that although Jace could only feel a fraction of his parabatai’s emotions and pain, the experience would still take its toll on Jace.

“H-have to find…” he had breathed between gasps. But Izzy understood, they all did and so she rest a hand on his shoulder, a touch he no longer had the energy to shy from.

“How do you plan to find him?”

With narrowing eyes he had said with determinated stubbornness, “Gonna search the streets… buildings… allys.”

“Like hell you are,” Simon had blurted. To which Clary had stepped between the two males as Simon had positioned himself in front of Jace’s path, and the Shadowhunter had looked like he might drive his seraph blade through the vampire for blocking the way to his parabatai.

“Stop. You can’t go out there wandering the city for him, especially not in this condition.”

Jace hadn’t looked convinced so she’d tried a different angle. “What if you got hurt and add to his pain?”

As if she’d slapped him, Jace’s eyes had widened and he stopped struggling.

After getting him situated on the bed in the other room, Clary had told Simon and Izzy she’d be back in a bit with dinner for everyone. But they had seen the grief in her eyes, realizing she needed some time for herself, and Izzy had said as much.

Which is why Clary was now in the empty training room, sweat dripping from her brow.

She didn’t care when her knuckles began to split, or when the punching bag turned slick. She didn’t reach for her stelle until an hour had passed, didn’t run it over her iratze for an hour more.

Because this was nothing, and whatever amount of pain she felt— no matter how small in comparison to Alec’s— she deserved it.

She deserved all of it, and so much more.

* * *

 

 

The velvet case was soft against her hands as she placed each beautiful piece of metal into its many folds and straps. The smallest of smiles graced her lips as she went about preparing her things, a peaceful tune on her tongue.

A knock sounded at the door behind her and, with approval, a man stepped through.

His battle worn eyes flirted over the case that lay splayed open across the table, and over each razor sharp blade that had been placed within the folds of maroon fabric.

“Khalida,” he nodded with respect to his leader; a gesture that she returned, although not bowing her head quite as low.

“Does something trouble you?” She said, feeling the wariness that was radiating from him.

“No, I just wished to discuss something.” A lot troubled him actually— the fact that he was devout to a woman easily ten years younger than he, the fact that he didn’t mind— but as Khalida’s most loyal follower, he kept silent until she nodded for him to continue.

“I have always been with you, Khalida. Never once doubted or questioned your plans–your actions.”

Her hands did not pause as they placed a serrated blade into the last slot. She did not raise her eyes to meet his until she had closed the case with gentle pressure, clasping it shut.

“What is it.”

Not a question, but a command in a tone that caused him to delay as well.

“I think you have made a mistake with this one. Alexander Lightwood… he is not like poisoning one of the idiot Clave officials or slitting the throats of Downworlders. He is smart; often overlooked and underestimated.”

Khalida showed no anger while he spoke, for she had none. Simply tilted her head in thought, “He has no following outside of those stationed and theoretically forced to be under his leadership by the Clave.”

“You are right,” he admitted with a slow nod. “But he is one of–if not _the_ best warrior to date… and he has a family. You have people who will die for you, it’s true. But, with every passing day that his people believe him to be dying for them… their motivation… their anger only grows.”

Khalida looked, really _looked_ at the man before her. Young, yet older than she. His worn features were configured in a way she had only seen once before upon his face— when she had returned that night after the battle… the night of the fire, as the only survivor but bearing news of the dead. For she had not been the only one to lose someone that horrible day when the streets had been rivers of blood.

“You are afraid.”

The words were softer than usual, and he kept his gaze locked on hers like an anchor to stay afloat of the memories he often drowned in. Khalida had given him, and all of her followers, a purpose to escape from the suffocation of that night.

“Of killing the Lightwood?” A huff escaped his lips to mask the pain, “Yes. A fact I am not afraid to admit. The Downworlders must die, and anyone that gets in the path must face annihilation, but him… Many of those loyal to you worked with him before joining the cause, and I fear…”

“That by ending him, I will sever alliances,” Khalida finished.

He nodded as she stalked around the table, grasping the familiar handle of her case tightly.

“I appreciate your honesty. But we will deal with the repercussions, twist the story to favor ours. Because this cannot be stopped, and you know why.”

He nodded again, confidence renewed and voice stronger as he exited the room, “He knows to much.”

In the darkness, a smile tugged at Khalida’s lips as she prowled towards the cell that wreaked of blood and gore.

* * *

 

 

 _it wont go away make please make it stop I cant it wont please please_ please

 

Jace couldn’t differentiate anymore between words that existed only in his mind from those being screamed into the sound suppressant walls of the medbay room.

The day had been a disjointed string of memories, hazy with a drug like sensation that he couldn’t make sense of. All Jace knew was that he kept waking up in this room, three other people that he couldn’t make out with his foggy eyes standing around him, and that whenever he jolted awake he was in blinding agony.

All of this information he’d gathered in the broken pieces of consciousness throughout the endless day, but none of it made sense.

As he became accustomed to the stinging pain coursing through his writhing body, his mind cleared enough to remember that he needed to do something… find someone… but who-

 

_Alec_

 

The pain was slowly building again but now everything came back in a crashing wave of grief.

 

_Alec alec alec alec alec_

 

Jace heard urgent chatter fill the room coming from those blurry figures as they grew closer. Hands were suddenly on him, trying to still his tremoring form. And despite the waves of shock that pulsed through his parabatai bond, Jace made to lash out at the hands, only to find he was bound to the bed by each limb.

Fear that he didn’t think was his own suffocated his lungs and, jerking at the restraints, Jace let out animalistic roars that tore through the inescapable agony.

“Stop l-let me go _stop_ don’t I-I have to find him! Get off of me! I have to find– get off!! I’ll kill you! I swear I’ll KILL YOU ALL _LET ME GO!_ ”

The threat, so strange and unnerving coming from Jace, died in his throat. But as he was drug back into the depths of unconsciousness, the great Jace Wayland whimpered.

And the words embedded themselves like shards of glass ripping into the other’s hearts.

“Please… my-my brother… he’s hurt… _please…_ ”

* * *

 

 

As Jace settled onto the mattress with a worrying thud, Clary fell into the chair behind her, an empty syringe grasped in one shaking hand.

Hot tears pooled in her eyes. She hated doing this, hated herself for doing this, but they had no choice. After the first few times of barely catching Jace in time and getting him somewhere safe from watchful eyes at the Institute, Izzy had made a suggestion.

None of them had liked the idea, lease of all Jace who had wanted to suffer, almost begged for it.

The argument had lasted until he’d collapsed again, his statement being one of raw guilt. Because like the rest of them, Jace felt like he deserved it. Deserved to be in pain after how he’d treated Alec and how he of all people— Alec’s freaking _parabatai — _hadn’t noticed Alec’s plan or that he was injured for so long. Jace wanted to feel everything that was done to Alec because each second his brother wasn’t with them was Jace’s fault.

But, unwilling to let him suffer, the vote was raised three against one. And so they sedated him. Every hour.

Clary’s eyes followed the trail of spots— the injection sites— that ended just above his wrist. She rose from her chair to examine the skin beneath each strip of soft padding. The golden flesh was chafed, raw and warm to the touch; but not from the bindings that Simon had carefully selected and attached to prevent such injury.

Upon closer inspection, Izzy announced from over Clary’s shoulder that the marks must be an echo to Alec’s.

“Why are these the only thing to actually show up?” Clary asked, voicing Simon’s question as well.

Until now, none of the wounds that Jace felt actually manifested, which made them all completely useless to help lessen the effects. Izzy closed her eyes for a moment before answering.

“Jace is only feeling a fraction of what Alec is, that’s how the bond works. Meaning that for an injury to appear, it has to be something Alec is enduring repeatedly, to the point of completely overwhelming his system. Basically an excess amount of sensation is instinctively being rerouted to Jace from these cuff wounds… because Alec’s body can’t endure it anymore.”

The room’s silence rung in Clary’s ears that had become accustomed to Jace’s screams. And she couldn’t keep her mind from wandering, thinking of how loud Alec’s must be. How alone he must feel. If he thought they weren’t coming for him.

She began pacing with hands that ruffled her hair as she clutched her scalp, losing her grip on reality as images filled her brain of Alec’s pale skin being ripped apart, of his body chained like an animal with Khalida smiling over him.

Simon shot Izzy a pointed look at Clary and back, but the Shadowhunter shook her head and pulsated her hand low. Simon got the message: Clary needs a minute, stay quiet.

And so he didn’t move, didn’t run to her like his muscles ached to do. Neither did Izzy from her spot beside Jace’s unconscious form.

And the two said nothing as Clary suddenly fell to her knees, and began to pray.

  
“Magnus _, please..._ ”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magnus Bane, as promised ;)  
> I really hope you like it, I had so much fun writing this update!  
> Let me know what'cha think, I love hearing your reactions <3

 

 

He wished, in this place among the bloodstained dirt and unbearable heat, that there was some sort of uniformity to the passing days… months? years? 

More than anything, he wished for there to be a schedule to the torture.

But Khalida knew that.

She knew that as a Shadowhunter, especially one of his caliber and training, that the only thing worse than physical pain for the warrior, was disorder.

Alec had no concept of how long he had been… wherever he was. Long enough to have memorized the complicated metalwork on the door that led to freedom in the moments it was illuminated by the candle she always brought in or by the braziers from the hall that shone once it was opened; long enough to have learned to feel each joint in his body, and the uniquely sharp pains that shot through them upon shifting millimeters against the chains that imprisoned him.

No windows, not even a light bulb. Only that solitary candle that came and went with Khalida. Sometimes it felt like years between her ‘visits’ that brought either food, or more likely,torture.

He’d tried to count in the beginning. Tried to keep some sort of record of how much time passed between each. But after realizing the amount of seconds were always different, and after the sessions began increasing in intensity, he gave up.

The only companion he had in the dark was that of his breathing, for he had stopped trying to listen to his heart.

The only thing to do between each visit was inspect each new wound; a task often more painful than the initial receiving of each. Because in the dark, the only way to ensure infection had not set in or that he didn’t need to try and reset a bone, was to feel each injury. Sometime in a rare moment of sleep, Khalida had rearranged his chains to enable such a task.

When he had awoken to a completely different configuration though, he had been extremely disoriented and in excruciating pain from the change. And, after a few more sessions, she had put him back into that of the original— crouched and bound by taught chains to each corner of the cell.

But during the brief amount of time, when his hands were given longer chains, his brain had been quick to learn of the pain his hands would bring upon touching even the most minor cuts or burns. Because his limbs would begin to shake, his breathing quickening whenever he was about to try— as he currently was, despite being in the original formation, when the door suddenly clicked and a creature emerged.

Holding that damn candle.

Alec flinched from the light, hissing quietly as the movement disturbed the deep cut beside his left eye. Dim as the candle was, it burned. He noticed Khalida was without a food tray or even her case of various sharp things that had been permanently stained with his blood.

He said nothing, for he had not said a word since the real torture began. Fearing that if he did, the secrets— the intel he’d gathered so carefully— would flow out.

The only thing his voice was used for were screams that tore at the raw flesh in his throat.

“When she passed…,” Khalida began out of nowhere. “I felt death, almost like I was looking into a dark chasm from the ledge of a cliff.”

She removed a syringe that she held to the flickering candle flame. Alec couldn’t stop his heart from quickening at the identifying color of it’s contents.

Demon blood.

“Would you like to see it? That line where life and death meet? Don’t worry, after awhile, the darkness bleeds into the light. You won’t know you’ve fallen off the cliff until it’s too late.”

His eyes widened ever so slightly. But Khalida took note of every millimeter he unwillingly yielded to fear.

“Or…,” her voice caressed the room like a coiling viper. “You could tell me what you claim to know about my plans… as well as what you know of the Downworld leaders and the inner workings of their politics.”

Khalida couldn’t help but be surprised at the stone composure of his tattered face. It revealed nothing, no emotions, no secrets… _nothing_. After a moment of staring into the flickering candlelight, Alec closed his eyes and tilted his head. It took her a moment to realize what he was doing; exposing his neck for the needle.

She tutted through her teeth, bending low. With her lips to his ear, she breathed in the thick smell of anguish and blood.

“You know what, Alec? All this pain you endure, all the pain you have ever endured, it’s all to protect others. I wonder… when will you have had enough? When will you stop suffering for them?”

As the syringe pierced his jugular, Alec shouted through his mind; _Never_.

The last thought Alec had was of his brother. _I’m sorry for what you’re about to feel_ , he whispered in his mind wishing desperately to be able to actually talk with Jace or to at least feel him through the bond. But all Alec could feel was the length of needle penetrating each layer of flesh and muscle. The only thing he could hear was the syringe being pressed beneath Khalida’s thumb.

And then, the screaming began.

* * *

 

 

From his spot at the table, surrounded by friends and those he hadn’t wished to see for a very long time, he rested his head back against the leather cushion of his chair.

The room was filled with breathtaking music played on equally divine instruments, barely able to be heard over the chattering that flowed throughout the beautifully decorated space.

A ballroom floor at the center of it all, where dresses of the finest linens seemed to float across the air, twirling among the suits— some of bland yet refined silks and others heavy laden with jewels.

Although the past few days had been filled with arguments, but ultimately reached a state of unity as they always managed to, now was a time for celebration and togetherness. A time that he usually enjoyed, but felt somewhat empty without that familiar calloused hand wrapped in his own.

Suddenly, the massive golden doors at the front of the room burst open, and a panting man, no a panting _werewolf — _evident by the glowing green irises— fell through the door.

The music stopped, the chatting ceased, as everyone in the room lowered into protective stances despite the fact that no intruder could break through the wards unless their heart and soul were completely devoid of malice. Nevertheless, glowing hands illuminated the room, reflecting off the meticulously polished floor.

“WHERE IS MAGNUS BANE,” he shouted into the pact room.

Heads turned towards the High Warlock seated at the table.

Magnus rose, casually striding to the frantic looking wolf-man that was terribly amiss atop the golden floors among so many warlocks. Magnus spread his arms to show no intent of harm as he spoke calmly, “I am not sure how you were able to find us, this is a secret meeting you know… What is it I can do for you?”

The distressed wolf said one thing, a single sentence that drove a dagger through Magnus’ soul, crushing his lungs in the process. And when the werewolf collapsed with exhaustion, his voice echoed through Magnus’ head so loudly, he thought he’d go deaf.

 _Alec Lightwood has been taken_.

* * *

 

 

Hovering over Jace as he finally dropped into the mattress once more, Izzy and Simon released tense breaths and exchanged a look of comfort that words could not begin to describe.

Clary stepped back from the bed of tousled sheets on uneasy legs, a newly emptied syringe in her raised hand.

The room was complete silence, devoid of any warmth despite the raging fireplace and shallow breathing from the bed, until the ring of a phone sliced through the haze.

Simon reached into his pocket, just now breaking eye contact with Izzy and raised the phone to his ear.

The two Shadowhunters watched the slightest of smiles, one of hope and desperation, twitch Simon’s lips as he spoke. “Luke! Yah, it’s me. Man am I happy to hear your voice. Please tell me you’ve got good news, we could really use some.”

The vampire went silent as he listened, and the females stepped closer as if in a trance. Simon, who had been looking at the ground, jerked his head up with clear eyes as he released a long stream of air.

“Seriously, thank you so much. Goodby– Yah, we’re hanging in there.”

Simon said goodbye and returned the phone to his pocket. He hadn’t finished telling them the good news— that Luke’s wolf had successfully made contact— when suddenly a glimmering hole ripped through the center of the room. Time and space warping within the ring of magic.

And the wielder stepped through.

* * *

 

 

“Magnus?!” Clary let out a broken sob as she launched herself at the warlock, syringe falling, forgotten, from her grasp.

He embraced the girl, voice shaking as he spoke soothing words into the crown of red hair. From over the top of Clary’s head, he nodded to Izzy and Simon.

And then he saw Jace.

Magnus pulled away from Clary, the werewolf’s voice vibrating through his skull once more as he took in the unusual paleness inflicted upon the usually golden skin of Jace Herondale.

Without tearing his gaze from the fallen warrior, Magnus asked in a brittle voice, “Where is Alec?”

And so, taking turns, they told him everything. The three conscious friends who had been suffering for _weeks_ without Magnus. Clary’s voice caught as she explained that they had no idea where Alec currently was, or what he might be enduring.

As they stood around Jace— the heavily sedated parabatai that radiated an aura of pain and torment, with raw injection spots in the spaces between runes and littering both forearms— Magnus had never been more disgusted with himself.

While he had been wallowing in self pity for having to bask in the luxuries of a warlock gathering without his counterpart, they had all been to hell and back. And now… now Alec had been left behind in the clutches of darkness.

_Alexander_

Their horrified voices sunk in, the information with it, and like a piece of shattered glass, Magnus was everything and nothing. Pain and grief, anger and blood lust, fear and guilt. Raw emotion swirled in his veins, toyed with his magic, invaded his brain. Too much, so much that they all canceled each other out, leaving him utterly and completely numb.

Clary took a staggered step back from the warlock, pressing herself into the wall behind her. She had expected Magnus to unhinge at the news, but not like this.

Because Magnus didn’t erupt into a burning volcano of fury as she had thought… no. When Magnus Bane turned away from Jace to face the others, his glamour melted away. And what was left… it was something of absolute calm. The type of calm one could only obtain through centuries of life. For the high warlock was glowing, casting radiant beams throughout the room.

Not of light, but darkness. The kind that fueled nightmares.

The male’s eyes flashed to Clary’s. Obsidian feline slits, ringed with gold fell upon her. At that moment he wasn’t filled with power, he _was_ power. And with those slitted eyes of lethal precision, he gazed upon two nefillum and a vampire, whispering in a way that almost screamed.

“Where is she. Where is Khalida.”

Simon couldn’t believe what he was hearing; not the harsh order Magnus had given, but the fact that his heart rate… it was slowing. To the point that Simon could barely hear it over the racing pulses from Clary and Izzy as they answered him.

“Idris.”

“But Magnus, you can’t go there. Downworlders… they’re forbidden. It’s part of the alliance, you know that.”

“Magnus… they’ll kill you on sight.”

Magnus didn’t smile, didn’t let a single spark of kindness or light grace his face. In that moment, Izzy realized that the being who stood before them was no mere warlock. He was Magnus Bane. High Warlock of New York. Son of Asmodeus. Prince of Hell.

The wielder of darkness gave no reaction to their worry, only waved a hand. A cell phone materialized in his grasp on which he dialed a number pulled from the depths of memory.

“ _Idris Command Center. Speak._ ”

“This is the High Warlock of New York. I am enacting Clause 42 of The Accords.”

There was a pause on the line as an amount of shock that had never in the Command Center operator’s eleven years on the job coursed through her, freezing her usual automatic response.

“ _To be clear… you are calling a meeting of the entire Clave leadership and each Shadowhunter Institute as well as representatives from the Seelie, Werewolf, and Vampire leadership_?”

“Yes.”

Again she paused. One word to confirm an event that had never, in the history of supernatural beings taken place. No matter how rare the occasion, she was versed in all 100 Clauses, as well as the protocol for each. Yet, she couldn’t keep the fear from her voice as she got the next official words out.

“ _When would you like this to take place_?”

“You have four hours.”

“ _The alarm will be sounded to all Shadowhunters and Downworlders for Clause 42 to be commenced in Idris._ ”

But Magnus looked at Clary, remembering what Khalida had done to the young nephilim— the girl who had taken care of Alec during these weeks of agony. Fresh rage washed over him and it was an effort to not physically shake at the chill that rushed along his spine.

“No. At the New York Institute.”

“... _It shall be done._ ”

With the flick of a wrist, the phone disappeared and he turned to meet three sets of wide eyes and gaping mouths. Magnus could tell that Izzy— the only one versed from birth in The Accords, the only one present to understand the gravity of what he had just done— was trying to speak, trying to form words around her surprise. But, Magnus looked away from her to face Clary.

“She will burn before the world for what she has done to Alec, to you and every corpse with slit throats and poison in their veins.”

Izzy stumbled towards Magnus, embracing his stiff form that radiated that chilling darkness. And although she could feel the death knell radiating in her bones, feel it penetrate her skin, she whispered so that only he could hear.

“Thank you, Magnus Bane… thank you.”

* * *

 

 

With so much power surging throughout his entire body, portaling into Khalida’s chambers was nothing for Magnus. In the blink of an eye, he found himself standing in the center of the room.

Bland. Just like it’s owner.

The few pieces of furniture were accented grey, as were the curtains draped upon the moderately sized window, and the sheets tucked with military precision atop the medium sized bed.

He walked across the pristine carpet to the window, finding a view of the land beyond. Idris.

Magnus had never been to the nephilim land before, but he wasn’t here to make friends and sight see. Still peering through the glass to see what Khalida must look out upon everyday, Magnus spread his magic like a web behind him, hunting for anything in this boring place that held any value to the monster; if such a thing existed.

After a moment, he feels a tug from a tendril at his back that causes him to turn. Turn to see all of his magic gathered and flitting around the far wall, no… at what it bares.

A mirror.

He prowls for it, calling his magic back to hear it’s secrets. Relief washes over him, for he had begun to wonder if anything as horrible as Khalida was even capable of caring for anything.

A bit surprised that the object was a mirror, and that it was so out of place in the bedroom decor, Magnus raised a brow. But he had no time to wonder, and no desire to understand. The alarm had been raised, he had notified his Downworld counterparts of the truth, and it was time to go.

* * *

 

 

Magnus could still feel the power pulsing in his veins with each steady heartbeat, and no strain was felt in his body despite the enormous mirror hovering over his head like a golden star as he passed through the portal.

Stepping through the whirl of magic, Magnus’ feet connect with the stone stage of the Shadowhunter’s gathering hall. A glance to the glass muraled windows reveal the beautiful New York cityscape below.

He pays no respects to the gathering of Clave officials, nor to the Institute Representatives. Magnus only turns towards the Seelie Queen, to Luke and Raphael, and bows slightly. It is all the kindness he can master as rage threatens to envelope him whole with every passing second. The Downworlders understand, for they know him better than any of these leather clad beasts.

Much to his surprise, the Seelie Queen returns the gesture, dipping even lower than he.

The action puts the room into complete silence. And while everyone stares with confusion from Magnus’ unglammored slitted eyes to the object hovering over his head, the highest ranking Clave official begins to read the formal opening to Clause 42. Magnus doesn’t listen, only looks to the crowd.

Clary and Izzy, Simon and Jace. The latter looks like he’s been drug from hell, but he stands— leaning against Izzy— but stands nonetheless. Scanning the room for his brother, he locks eyes with Magnus with a nod.

A few members of the Clave were still filing into the gathering hall, and as they did Magnus searches each new face for Khalida. While he surveys, Magnus feels the mirror still held above his head. It tells him stories of pain and suffering, love and loss. It speaks to him lovingly and through it he can feel the yearning touches it felt frequently against it’s polished finish.

But he didn’t need magic to realize how important this object was to the monster, for all was told in Khalida’s eyes the second she stepped through the Sanctum doors.

And so, Magnus held the mirror— what seemed to be her last piece of warmth in the world— and stood before the gathered crowd, staring at her dead in those eyes of poison. He could see the green; the death and danger contained in this small and surprisingly young woman.

He was not afraid.

Even as she stood there still trying to convince everyone she was in control with her exquisite posture and flat, leveled gaze. But he saw the way her eyes had widened, pupils dilated while they remained inconspicuously fixed on the mirror.

The highest ranked Clave leader— who he was, Magnus did not care— cleared his throat.

“High Warlock of New York, as part of Clause 42 you have been granted an audience. We are all very eager to learn what,” his gaze drifted to the floating object above the warlock, “business you have.”

Finally pinning the leader with that feline glare that so few had ever seen, Magnus projected his voice towards the crowd in answer.

“Khalida. Call her to the stage.”

Although he bristled at the obvious command, the order was repeated from the nephilim man, as he called the monster forward. She had just taken her usual place among the row of robed figures— cloaked in her own and peering from beneath the drooped hood— when Magnus shook his head.

“Please step forward, Khalida.”

Clary squeezed each of the hands clasped in her own. Izzy and Jace gave similar reactions, Simon as well from his place beside Raphael. Clary didn’t think she’d ever heard the word “please” spoken with such undertones of murder. She didn’t think she was breathing, didn’t think she could hear over her beating heart, as Magnus took a step closer to the brown haired woman.

“Where is he.”

Not a question from a High Warlock, but a demand from the most powerful magic bringer in history. And when Khalida had the audacity to feign confusion and ignorance, he loosened his hold on the bejeweled mass above his head before clutching it again.

The slight dip towards the ground caused Khalida’s facade to crack ever so slightly as that cunning smile dropped with the mirror. But all who were present could see the expression, for Magnus had shot a burst of wind at her face before loosening his hold, leaving her face exposed without the hood to hide behind.

“I will not ask again,” Magnus breathed as his cat eyes flashed and he allowed wisps of dark energy to seep onto the floor from his feet like that of spreading fog.

He could almost see the calculations running through her head and Magnus knew she was analyzing her options. While she thought it over, Magnus flexed his hand again, threatening to tilt the mirror once more.

“Bring him in,” she finally said over a shoulder in a strained voice without looking away from the warlock. But Magnus wasn’t fooled, her eyes were directed at him, yes. But her heart and soul were laser focused on the object of gems and gold, leaving Magnus to wonder how such a thing was more important than possibly exposing her little game.

Magnus was about to lower the mirror safely to the ground, having accomplished what he’d intended (a frightening display and threat to all in exchange for his love). But, just as he was relaxing his hand for the peaceful decent, the metallic grinding of marching guards filled his ears.

Turning with a smile on his face, so overwhelmed at the thought of being reunited, Magnus froze, his magic and the mirror included as every fiber in his body turned subzero.

Time and space had no meaning. He didn’t think that even his blood was moving— oh yes, it must be, for that was his deafening heartbeat pounding at the sight before him. Because what the guards brought in… the gasps of the crowd meant nothing to Magnus as he took it all in.

Blood.

So much blood.

In all his centuries of life, Magnus had never seen so much. No inch was saved from the savage touch of red. No piece of skin was without lesions or rips or burns. Through the scraps of shredded clothing, Magnus could see only the faintest outline of runes through the thick dirt and gore.

With one look at those almost entirely skinned chafed wrists, that neck black with bruising, Magnus could almost envision the restraints that had rubbed those places raw. And the horrifying scars left by the Creature— the slashes across his chest that Clary had described so vividly— they were lost in the hellscape of his body.

But none of this, _none_ caused Magnus to crave death more than the voice that called out the warlocks name—   _his_ name. Devastatingly broken in a way only attainable through endless screaming.

Magnus could faintly hear cries and wails of horror from the crowd around him, but he could hear nothing through the static of his mind.

_You_

A growl not of this earth ripped through his mind as he spun to face Khalida. But she wasn’t looking back. No. While Magnus’ whole world, entire reason for living, lay on the ground halfway between life and death… Khalida was watching the mirror that remained frozen in the air.

Love filled her eyes towards it. Such pure and unwavering _love_.

And Magnus saw red.

Tilting his head to the ceiling, he raised a hand, and the sky blue magic that circled the frame turned to obsidian night.

“No,” Khalida’s eyes tore from the mirror and shot to Magnus, face illuminated by the dark magic swirling around her treasure. “Just, just set it down. Don’t do this.”

Glancing back up at the nebulous power he wielded, Magnus willed the mirror to rise towards the muraled ceiling above them all. What a mockery, to have depictions of angels with wings spread over such demons while the only true angelic being lay in tatters, staining the marble floor an ungodly crimson.

“Why not?”

He let the mirror drop a few feet before catching it, savoring the horror in her face. But a voice, breaking on every word reached out.

“Mag-ns… d-don’t…”

Khalida nodded her head rapidly as she looked from Magnus to the mirror that ascended once more to the ceiling.

“ _Please_.”

Magnus could feel the desperation in that single word, it even caused his hand to still, the mirror with it. But then the warlock looked to Alec. His life. His universe.

“She hurt you,” Magnus whispered. “She _hurt you_.”

Alec tried to reach out, but with one eye clamped shut and the other growing tired, he couldn’t even see where to extend his shaking arm. He held it out limply, thick liquid pouring onto the ever growing pool where he lay.

And Magnus turned slowly to Khalida, unbridled terror ripping through any mask or facade of composure. He raised an arm once more.

The hand flexed into a claw as he drove his clenched fist to the ground. And like a comet crashing through the air, the mirror with it.  



	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little shorter 'cause the next update will be pretty long, I think.  
> But, I hope you like it!
> 
> Let me know what you think :)
> 
> <3 <3 <3 <3

 

 

Khalida heard nothing, felt nothing as she watched it descend to the marble floor. Because as time stood still, the drops of melting ore frozen in their cascade from the once solid gold frame, she _was_ the mirror.

When it collided, so too did her knees to the ground. When the fissures gave way and cracked, so did she.

Head raised to the ceiling, teeth bared, Khalida shrieked as the chains she’d so carefully locked around her heart shattered, splintering, and embedded themselves into her soul. And she felt every shard. She felt _everything_.

Hearing nothing over the piercing screams that endlessly ripped through her dry throat in violent lashes, Khalida’s senses went numb. She was blinded by the phantom ashes that coated her eyes, she could feel nothing but the cold mud caking her limbs. And then she could almost feel it… feel the love of her life, her soulmate, her _Brooklyn_ in her arms, colder than the mud. Cold with death.

She could feel Brooklyn’s weight, hear her choked last words.

_I love you, Khali…_

But then the weight disappeared and she couldn’t feel her anymore… couldn’t hear her voice— that beautiful voice that had brought tears to Khalida’s eyes on those lazy afternoons— couldn’t see those beautiful constellations upon her skin that had been connected with the knife of a Downworlder.

Suddenly she was clawing, tearing at her chest as she convulsed on the ground gasping for air.

Because she was bleeding, had to be. If not on the outside where she was nothing but goosebump raised skin violated with runes, then on the inside; where the chains around her heart had shattered with such force that they had ripped her organs, wounded that with which they had been fastened to protect.

She needed to feel it on the outside, needed to release the building pressure that pounded against her rib cage.

Her fingers flexed into claws as she dug for that beating thing that threatened to tear her apart. She scratched incessantly, just wanting it to go away. Her fingers ached and her chest burned and she was no closer to the source of agony.

The pressure grew too great and she felt as though the blood inside her, the crimson that must be flowing from her mutilated heart, was drowning her. Suffocating her from the inside out.

She gasped and took her red streaked hands to her face, hiding herself from existence.

Her chest throbbed— from the inside and out— but she rolled over, pushing her hand covered face to the ground as her back arched into the air.

She didn’t know why she screamed. Why she continued expelling the sounds that terrified even herself. Perhaps it was because she thought that maybe, just maybe if she was loud enough, she could pierce through reality… and maybe Brooklyn would hear her. Would hear Khalida’s distant cry and would, from wherever she was, come back.

_Come back to me_

It was that whisper of possibility that ebbed through her conscious like a living thing that kept Khalida going long after her frame wracked with crimson splattered coughs.

And so, Khalida screamed.

Eyes shut, teeth bared, she _shrieked;_  until the echoes of her voice against the marble floor and mosaic glass deafened her. Until she could no longer hear herself— could only feel the vibrations of her bleeding throat and the begging of her lungs for breath that would not come.

Something tried to clasp her mouth shut, but instantly jerked away when she clamped her teeth around it.

She didn’t know, through the chaos shredding her reality, that it was a guard. That it was the hand of her most loyal follower whose skin she broke beneath her teeth. But even if life itself wasn’t splitting apart, she wouldn’t have cared that it was his hand she bit.

Just as she didn’t care when four more guards placed chains around her waist, pinning both arms to her side. She didn’t fight it, just kept screaming. Right up to the moment that a tendril of glittering magic slammed into her forehead.

And the darkness that greeted Khalida was emptier than she.

* * *

 

 

With the room erupting in utter chaos, everyone busy figuring out where their loyalties lie, Clary ran. Sliding over the dusting of glass shards that covered the marble floor and avoiding the glowing drips of melted gold, she ran as Magnus prowled for Khalida.

But Clary wasn’t focused on anything other than what was before her.

Words could not describe the flow of sounds that bubbled like water from her lips as if she had drowned.

“Cla...ry…”

If she hadn’t been staring right at his mutilated face, Clary wouldn’t have believed that demolished rasp of a voice belonged to him.

To _Alec_.

She could barely look at him, barely face what she had caused.

That beautifully precise jaw was a sickening mix of deep yellow and purple bruising; those perfect cheekbones littered with nicks and scrapes that held clots of dark plasma in their creases; the skin above his brow cracked almost as badly as his lips and blood dripped from beneath that jet black hairline like a satanic halo.

And that was just his face.

Clary knew she was a coward for averting her gaze, but she couldn’t do it. She wasn’t strong enough to take in the rest of his body or even to try and see beneath the dirt caked hand Alec was clamping to one side of his face.

With one arm raised to his left eye and the other shaking, he began to slide further to the floor, unable to support his weight on one unsteady limb. But Clary was there instantly.

Alec went silent, for every ounce of his being gasped as it drank in the warmth of her soft skin against the chilled blood that coated every inch of his parched body like a second skin.

He didn’t care who heard him as long, unwarrior-like  sobs escaped between his hoarse coughs and ragged breaths that sent tremors throughout.

The arms around him didn’t loosen an inch and he didn’t pull away despite how the strong embrace parted his wounds and pushed at each broken bone in a way that flirted with unconsciousness.

“C-clary…” he rasped once more. Clary shushed him, whispering as she ran a hand over his matted hair, to rest. But he pressed the hand harder over his left eye, blood seeping through his fingers, and begged, “Ple...ase...d-don’t let...any...one see…”

Her hand paused, the shouting around her growing just as much as the worry in her veins, but she paid no attention. Nothing mattered more than what was cradled in her arms.

“See what? Alec, see what?”

But his energy was seeping through his fingers, through every inch of broken skin, and he used the last of it to repeat himself to the nephilim doctor that was suddenly kneeling beside Clary.

The healer nodded firmly to him with a face he knew instantly he could trust. She turned to Clary, holding out a blanket that she’d been holding.

“For the shock. Keep him warm, I will be right back with a stretcher.” And then, leaning closer she added softly, “Don’t turn around.”

Because behind her, she could hear wails unlike anything she’d heard before. But as she looked down at the contents of her now stained arms, Clary realized that Alec had become used to such noises.

For beneath the blanket and sheltered in her arms, Alexander Lightwood had begun his descent into the unconscious. But, one last thought drifted through the silent battlefield of his mind.

Like the sole survivor of a massacre waking up to a blood soaked horizon, realization dawned with the rising sun that now since he’d survived the bloodshed, maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to die.

And with that, he drifted off… the sound of a beating heart at his ear.

* * *

 

 

Moments later, Alec was pulled from his nightmares of death that he’d learned during his time chained to the floor, were really dreams. Although the disruption wasn’t a fresh blade at his flesh or a needle through muscle, it was pain that awoke him all the same.

Pain. Always with the _pain_.

He knew this feeling though; the intense, persistent stinging that burned throughout every nerve. It radiated from the left side of his face with mind numbing potency, spread across his entire body like a virus. He knew it like a toxic friend he couldn’t get rid of. The pain of his new reality… the pain of having lived through the impossible. It fried his senses and made him want to scream, but his lips were split with shallow but angry lesions and his lungs were empty. All he could do was wait, gather whatever strength he had left in order to speak.

A violent tremor shook his body at the thought. Just the idea of moving the cracked lines of his mouth or forcing air to pass over the shredded mess of vocal cords made him want to shut down. But he had to ask, had to beg, had to make sure no one saw…

“Uh, guys? I think he’s waking up,” Simon voiced from his place beside Alec’s head.

The doctor, despite her age, kept pace with them as Alec was rushed through the halls. She huffed out through pursed lips, “We must hurry.”

Simon gripped his portion of the stretcher tighter as did the others’. Alec’s weight was greater than they had imagined, but together—Simon and Jace, Clary and Izzy—they held him aloft.

With just two more halls to go, Alec became coherent enough to beg—in that hopelessly broken voice—to the doctor in stride beside them.

And the four could do nothing as he begged—tears began to mix with the blood flowing from beneath the hand somehow still clamped to his face—not to let anyone in while the doctor worked.

Energy seeped from Alec’s body in crimson, but still he fought to stay awake. Just long enough to pour every ounce of desperation into each pleading word. Because he didn’t want anyone to see him like this. Despite the shreds of clothing he still wore and the blanket draped over his body, they’d already seen too much. And if they saw it—what was beneath fabric or his hand—they’d think he was… weak, o-or that this was their fault.

This pain, this emotional agony… he didn’t want-couldn’t let anyone feel it. It was his to endure.

And Alec would—over and over—until death finally stopped that beating heart within. Because that was all he knew: _protect_.

The thought of his heart ceasing somehow comforted him, most likely a byproduct of an overwhelmed system that twisted his morals and hold on reality. But he didn’t mind, especially as his uncovered eye grew heavy, and he drifted back to the field of corpses and the smell of a battle not won. Asleep atop the red stretcher that had not so long ago been white.

The moment Alec was transferred onto the medical bed, everyone was shooed out the door by the doctor and Clary had to stop Jace from punching his way back to his brother’s side.

Once the door slammed shut behind Simon, who was the last one out—in an effort to protect the elderly woman—they stood outside the room, knowing what was going on only by the screams that soon erupted from inside and the grunts of discomfort from Jace as he sat on the floor, head pressed against the wall as his surroundings spun.

Sometime during the endless waiting, Magnus came bursting down the empty hallway towards them, magic radiating from him like tendrils of amber midnight.

He seemed frantic, not knowing what to do with his hands or all that raged inside of him. He’d never felt anything like this before; such emotion that he couldn’t even put a name on.

Without saying a word, Izzy stepped into that darkness and embraced the warlock. He opened his mouth but only stuttered. “Shhh,” she soothed. “I know… I know.”

Just as she stepped away from him and returned to Simon’s side, the door opened a sliver and the doctor poked her head through. But before they could berate her with questions or demand entry, she spoke.

“He needs rest. No visitors today.”

Jace and Magnus strode towards her, demanding to be let in. But she just looked at them with genuine sorrow. “He asked to be left alone.”

And as she closed the door, they all saw the layer of blood coating both arms… saw the wariness in her eyes at what she’d seen.

The door sealed shut again, leaving them each to their own terror stricken minds.

Jace was about to slide back to the ground, weighed down by the nightmarish scenes playing out in his mind, when he paused. With hands splayed against the cool stone, a huff blew from his lips as he pushed from the wall.

Everyone watched as he began down the hallway, purpose in his every step.

“Where are you going?” Izzy asked.

Again, Jace paused. But only for a moment as he projected his voice over a shoulder, “I have to see.”

Without another word, he continued down the hallway and, like a funeral procession, they all followed.

* * *

 

 

She awoke in darkness.

Not remembering her name.

Not caring.

She could barely remember how to breathe—stopping often and making up for it with strangled gasps.

But she didn’t care.

Were her eyes even open? She couldn’t tell. The cold surface of the ground felt dull against her numb palms that felt nothing. But it didn’t matter. Would it make a difference if she had awoken in her room or at the dark gates of hell?

Some broken thing within her chest longed for the latter.

But the sound of footsteps and the violation of a candle came towards her. She didn’t try to retreat further into what must be a cell, what would be the point?

She just lay down onto the hard ground beneath her. The bite of frigid stone burning her exposed skin almost as intensely as the throbbing that radiated from the mutilated flesh at her chest.

The cold seeped through the thin prison garments and her nails felt uncomfortable with the pressure of her own skin and dried blood gathered beneath them. But she didn’t care.

“Khalida.”

Magnus ignited the braziers beside the cell door, Clary and Jace at either flank, Simon and Izzy no more than a step behind. He could feel them shaking with rage as was he.

But something was wrong.

With the cell now illuminated softly with flickering light, they could see the prisoner. The one responsible for torturing the one they all loved so much, that he didn’t want to be seen.

She didn’t rise to meet them at the bars, didn’t offer a mask of smug defiance or demands of release. And with her body sprawled across the ground, trembling with the cold but not getting up from it, Magnus was struck by how young she was.

A woman yes, but Khalida couldn’t be anymore than a year older than Clary. And yet… her lithe form held such ancient ruthlessness when she was standing among the Clave. A kind of mask only stripped bare now that her eyes were closed and form was still.

And Magnus realized that the woman she was to all who crossed her… it was just that. A mask.

“Khalida,” Clary said softly this time, echoing Magnus’ original command despite the rage that boiled within. The sharp edge to her voice was softened by confusion.

She didn’t move, barely looked to be breathing, but her lids slid open and she stared at the ceiling above her blankly.

“Why did you do it?” Clary whispered through the bars. Her voice broke on each word as frustrated tears began to flow. The tears fell not just for _what_ Khalida had done to Alec, but also for the fact that Clary didn’t care about knowing the reasons for Khalida murdering the Clave members, or even for slaughtering the Downworlders by commanding the Creature… Clary didn’t care about any of the dead. What scared her the most, what caused the tears to flow in a steady stream, was that Clary only cared about _why_ , _how_ Khalida had tortured Alec.

Khalida’s chest stopped its rise and fall.

A moment passed, and then another. But then she gasped so suddenly, lungs insatiable for air, that she began to cough. Yet, still she remained pressed flat to the ground, savoring that violating cold that was the only thing she could feel.

“You think you know love?”

Her voice was barely a whisper, broken and shattered and dry. Like talons on the rusted metal bars of her cell door.

Caught off guard by the question, all Clary could say was, “What?”

“You know nothing,” Khalida spoke with no emotion to her voice, just kept her blank eyes focused and yet not on the ceiling. “Even you who has lived for so long.”

Magnus gripped the cell door, the bars clinking against the rings on his fingers. Just as his mouth opened, Khalida whispered to no one, “I dream of her in colors that don’t exist.”

Simon glanced at Jace and Izzy, who both seemed just as confused by the monster’s behavior. But Clary shook her head and pushed Magnus aside.

“Why did you hurt him? Why did yo-”

“Did you know…” Khalida took a ragged breath, pushing herself over onto her stomach and looked at the floor beneath her nose, “...that it takes seven years for cells to replenish?”

They all stared, with scrunched brows and tilted heads, at the strange question coming from the unnerving girl.

“Which means that in seven years… _she_ will have never touched the skin on my face. Never have held my hand or cradled my tear streaked cheek.”

It took all of Magnus’ self control to not flinch as Khalida, from her spot flat against the ground, jerked her gaze straight to him.

Wild hair in her face, yet she looked up with her head still level to the floor, chin resting against the stone. And in the shadows of her dead eyes, Magnus could see the beginnings of insanity.

“But what is seven years to you?” She laughed, the sound cutting through the air. Her forehead settled on the cold stone as her voice echoed off it. “An immortal… what is seven years but the blink of an eye.”

“You ask me why I did it? Well I ask you… in your nightmares— the ones where he is cold in your arms and there is no rise or fall to his chest— what do you do? What do all of you do? In those vivid dreams of crimson and rain, is there anything you haven’t done to satiate your pain?”

Silence was her only answer, until Izzy stepped from Jace’s side, the sound of heeled boots filling the stale air.

Without a word, she took Clary’s hand into one of her own, and clasp the other around the ringed fingers of Magnus.

Isabelle Lightwood squared her shoulders, turning around. With hands filled with those she loved, she led her family away from the cell. Away from the horrible monster—

that spoke of pure truth.  

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't wait for you to read this one, I had so much fun with it!
> 
> Let me know what'cha think. Thanks for reading <3 <3

 

 

Alone in the cell it became easy to drift away into the reality of her past. To walk amongst her memories.

When the brazier light turned to the glimmering sun and the stone beneath her was no longer cold—when it became soft grass that held her in nature’s embrace—Khalida was home.

And for moments at a time—for she was still practicing—she could close her eyes and just… barely make out the angel beside her.

Barely make out the freckles and smile that was lopsided from disuse; the olive skin radiating below the sun. And if she stretched her imagination to it’s limits… Khalida could she eyes, could get lost in their blue depths, searching for the gold flecks within.

But only when she was lost to sleep—so rare these days—could Khalida hear her voice. Hear that ethereal sound, like a summer breeze over a bloodied battlefield, whisper to her lovingly.

She could hear herself muttering lazily to the goddess beside her something silly about the beauty of the sun’s rays that caused each branch of the willow tree they lay beneath to glow.

And Khalida could just barely make out that chime of easy laughter and feel the whisper from Brooklyn’s lips against her own.

“Light is easy to love. Show me your darkness.”

And each time Khalida began to feel happiness, pure joy and warmth, her heart would convulse and air would escape her lungs and she’d be clawing fresh stripes into her chest.

It killed her, killed Khalida to indulge in the beautiful memories that she’d kept locked away for so long. But every lost breath was worth it, every second she couldn’t breathe from the heartache and thought she might implode… it was all worth it. Worth seeing Brooklyn’s smile, hearing her laughter, feeling her breath, seeing… _her_.

She didn’t know how much time past, but it didn’t matter. Not a bone in her body nor a neuron in her brain gave a single care about such a thing as time.

No, Khalida did not care if a hundred years had passed, or just a hundred seconds. Because here, in this cell with only her paper thin clothes and her memories, Khalida was eternal.

* * *

 

 

A hundred years had not passed, only two days. Two days since Magnus had felt the surge of rage pull his hand to the marble ground, two days since shrieks and shattered glass deafened him.

During these seemingly endless days, Alec continued to reject company outside that of the warm hearted doctor.

Somewhere during the first day, Clary had been awoken at Jaces side by a nightmare of her own making. She could still feel Alec’s dying body in her arms as she’d wrung her hands and hurried to the medbay.

The door had opened on the second light knock, wrinkled smile lines greeted her. But there was pain in those kind eyes.

“No visitors, child.” There was no malice, no ill intent or hatred in those words that had been repeated dozens of times just that morning. But as she turned back to the room, Clary put an arm in the way of the door closing, and before the doctor could say anything she’d whispered, with desperation strangling her words.

“Is he… is he sleeping?”

The doctor’s brows had come together as her lips became a tight line. She shook her head, “I’ve been having to sedate him.”

Clary’s strength had faltered, arm falling from between the door and it’s frame. The doctor gave a strained smile and closed the door.

But Clary wasn’t the only one to feel such emotions clenching her arteries, for the next day, it was a glittering warlock whom the doctor opened the door to. He begged to know how bad it was to which she’d replied calmly, “I have bandaged all the injuries that I can see… but even I cannot reach the wounds plaguing his mind.”

Magnus had taken a step forward, “Let me try.”

It wasn’t a command, for the words had no bite. But the doctor only shook her head, “Magic cannot heal what has been done. Only time.”

He had faltered at that, then his mind caught on a memory. “His eye, how is it? I remember him working very hard to keep it covered.”

The doctor had said nothing to that, just took his jeweled hand into her own, and with a tight squeeze turned back, closing the door behind her.

It continued like that, each of them—Clary and Magnus, Jace and Izzy, even Simon—knocking on that door at various times of the day, gathering little bits of information from the doctor: No he isn’t sleeping without sedative, yes he is able to speak though not well nor often, no he won’t be able to eat real food for at least another day, yes he’s on an IV drip.

Alec wouldn’t tell her what happened, barely speaks. The doctor waved away their offers to help, especially Magnus. She told the warlock that traces of demon blood and various other substances had been injected into Alec’s body, make it too dangerous to be mixed or removed with magic.

When they weren’t sitting outside the medbay or knocking on the door, they would journey into the dungeons. Not that there was anything to see. Khalida was always in the same spot, laying on the stone ground. The guards swore that she got up to ravage through the food tray each time they gave her one.

But the days were slow.

Twice the sun set and the moon rose to it’s apex above the sleeping city and it was on this third night that Izzy’s phone vibrated in her pocket. She removed it to see a message from Clary to the group.

“ _Dinner in five. Same place as usual._ ”

With a sigh, Izzy rose from the hard wooden crate that had been her seat for the past hour or so, stretching her legs that were numb with static.

She blinked a few times to adjust to the light as she climbed the stairs and distanced herself from that cell with the silent, shivering body on it’s floor.

* * *

 

 

Alec awoke to his own bedroom, beneath his own sheets. He jolts, trying to sit up but collapsing back into the firm pillows at the searing pain. Because the bandages were pressing, rubbing against his straining body.

“Easy, child. Breathe.”

With his unbandaged eye, Alec squinted to find the doctor walking towards him with a medcart she’d been arranging by the door.

He tried to speak, to ask how he’d gotten here, but no sound came out, only broken air. Terror washed over him in a wave of nausea.

_Why can’t I speak? How’d I get in here? When did these bandages get put on? Why am I so tired and hungry and the pain thepainthe…_

But the doctor was at his side, a feather light hand resting on his wrapped shoulder.

“It is alright. Your friends helped move you. I figured you’d spent enough time in that medbay. Do no good being holed up in there.” He opened his mouth but she lifted her hand from the bandaged shoulder to hold it out, “Your voice is severely damaged, it might be difficult to speak for awhile, especially after waking up when it has been at rest.”

Although her words were calm, she spoke quickly and Alec’s mind couldn’t keep up. He could feel sedative still in his veins, mixing with things other than his own blood. But the flurry of information she was giving… it was all too much, too fast.

His mind began to unwillingly draw connections, remembering the time when he’d not so long ago awoken to the changed configuration of his chains. The initial shock was identical to that of awaking in his own bedroom. The memory of that excruciating pain in every joint and muscle rushed to the surface.

The doctor noticed his silence and the quickening of his breathing. She scurried to the lamps, turning them off, then to the windows, drawing the curtains. When she returned to his side more, he’d calmed slightly.

“Just a bit of sensory overload, that is to be expected.” He didn’t look at her, only gazed at his hands with the unbandaged eye. Her voice softened, “Is there anything you need?”

The question was simple, but she immediately realized how rarely such a thing had been directed to Alec. He seemed to be wrestling with an idea.

“Out with it.”

She had a feeling that if not for the blood loss, he would have blushed at his whispered request with that agonizingly rough voice.

“Shower?”

She gave him that saddened look, “I am sorry, dear. How do I put this… I think your skin… it has been through enough for a while.”

With his damaged vocal cords, he couldn’t explain to her that he _had_ to shower. He had to get rid of that smell of humidity, the blood, the sweat. He had to or he’d explode. He couldn’t tell her that he still felt like an animal chained to the floor. Couldn’t convey how he’d never be able to discern reality if he was constantly reminded of where he’d been by simply carrying the cell’s dirt and air on him.

“ _Please_.”

* * *

 

 

Joined together, the conversation was light and no mention of recent events were discussed. The group was in Clary’s room, eating dinner around the table Simon had helped her bring in two days ago—they had all begun a ritual of convening for meals, the only time they left the medbay hall or Shadowhunter duties, the only time they felt somewhat whole despite their strained hearts.

They were eating in comfortable yet exhausted silence when the door creaked open.

At the sight of Alec’s doctor in the slightly ajar doorway, the five abruptly rose, almost knocking over their chairs in the process.

“What’s wrong?”

“Is Alec alright?”

“Did something happen??”

The doctor placed a wrinkled hand out to calm them. And somehow, the motion did. Once their scattered hearts settled back into their chests, she spoke softly, “Do you have room for one more?”

Utterly confused at the question, they all blinked at her before Simon nodded and Jace helped him get a seat and plate out for the old woman.

But she laughed, swinging the door wider to reveal another person behind her.

“Come on, then,” she urged with a swinging arm.

Clary’s eyes widened and Izzy gasped as a Shadowhunter stepped over the threshold.

“Alec?” Magnus breathed with disbelief.

They tried not to stare, they really did. But it was impossible. With each passing second, Clary’s heart clenched more and more.

There were no words… Alec looked _horrible_.

Bandages covered most of his body, shirt and pants the rest, but what skin was exposed… was agitated red or blue with bruising. Shoulders hunched with the increased gravity of his injuries, the shadows deepened the darkness beneath his unbandaged eye.

Simon and Jace stepped forward to help him to his seat, Magnus reaching out as well, but Alec refused and stumbled over as gracefully as he could.

They all talked, except for Alec who seemed content to listen. He just wanted to feel normal for once, wanted to pretend nothing had happened, that he was just at dinner with his family.

And it did feel normal, despite the spikes of pain and persistent throbs beneath each bandage, despite the frequent glances from the others. Despite the fact that his left eye was heavily bandaged and he had to tilt his head awkwardly to see Clary and Jace who were sitting at the left side of the table with only his right eye.

Alec glanced at his plate of food frequently, but made no move to touch it, despite the painful emptiness of his stomach.

“Hey dude,” Simon’s voice caused the others to turn. “You must be starving, you gonna eat any of that?”

Without lifting his flat gaze from the plate, Alec replied in a monotone voice, “I wasn’t given permission.”

Not realizing what he’d said until everyone froze, he replayed the automatic response in his head, and Alec’s eyes widened.

He’d worked so hard to keep the scars—both physical and mental—a secret from the others. Alec didn’t want them to feel like they had caused the trauma. And here he was, revealing to them his newly trained eating habits.

Without meeting anyone’s eyes—especially Clary and Magnus’—he quickly rose from the table. His long legs made the escape difficult, especially now that they were bruised to the bone, lacerated almost as deep, and wrapped tightly with bandages.

Alec knew he shouldn’t have asked the doctor to eat with them… he’d only caused them pain.

They called after him, rising from their seats and knocking the chairs over this time, but he had already stumbled out the door.

A heartbeat passed and Clary was grabbing for his untouched plate of food as well as her nearly empty one, and hurried out after him.

* * *

 

 

Clary couldn’t find him. After checking his room and office, she began to get worried. The memory of searching the entire Institute only to find an unconscious body on her floor threatened to suffocate her–so still and lifeless it had been... _he_ had been—but she took a deep breath that cleared her mind.

Opening the metal door, Clary stepped into the brisk night air.

From the rooftop she could see the entire city aglow with life. And looking out at it all, Alec stood, shoulders hunched as his arms rested atop the ledge.

Although his back was to her, Clary sent her voice to him. “Alec? I know… I know your style is to deal with things alone, but you don’t have to… I’m here for you. We all are.”

She didn’t take anymore steps closer to the unmoving form. Bumps of thick bandages were visible through the black t-shirt he wore—long sleeved to conceal as much damage as possible.

But she could see the back of his neck; the black and blue stripe, the dozens of small slices above and below it.

Alec said nothing at her words, made no movement, didn’t even tense a muscle beneath the tight shirt.

A moment passed… and then another. But only the song of wind through skyscrapers filled the air.

Realizing he wasn’t going to speak, Clary placed his plate onto the ground and rose to leave. She couldn’t quite swallow the disappointment, or the guilt, but she spoke through the thickness of it all.

“If you need anything, even just to talk, come get me.” _Because this is all my fault_.

Her hand was twisting the cold metal handle when a voice rattled through the silence.

“Wait.”

Instantly the door was released and she turned around. Alec’s back was still to her as she took a step forward, then stopped, fearing if she got too close he might scare off.

He didn’t speak for a few more breathes, but the words that followed would stay with her forever.

“When I was… in the cell,” his voice was level—fluctuating only due to the shredded chords—calm yet lacking emotion to keep the memories from latching on, “I was fed w-whenever they felt like it, which… wasn’t often. And when they did, the tray was set just out of reach. And the–the chains… I knew they were breaking my wrists, but I pulled against them every time. Trying to get closer. L-like… like an animal.”

When his voice broke on the last word, Clary felt it. She wanted desperately to run to him, but her limbs refused to move.

“It was always something amazing, the food they put out of reach. Always smelled like heaven. And I–” he shook his head, “–I cried every time they replaced it with some piece of rotted meat or stale bread… that was the food they pushed into my reach. But even once it was right below my face, I wasn’t allowed to eat until… until given permission. A command they’d sometimes wait what felt like hours to give. If I disobeyed…”

He couldn't continue the thought, couldn’t put into words how he’d been beaten senselessly the first few times he’d eaten without permission. He swallowed painfully.

Clary felt cool liquid begin to trail down her cheeks, the night breeze turning the tears frigid.

“It was a game, part of the torture. She wasn’t going to let me die of starvation, even though I always felt beyond it. I was given injections… nutrients or something. It did nothing for appetites.”

The pieces fit together now, she had been wondering—they all had—about how Alec’s muscles were still the same size, how his frame hadn’t turned frail. She remained silent, as did he for a few moments.

“I had no concept of time. That’s what nearly broke me.” He laughed bitterly, “Actually I think… I think it kind of did.”

Alec glanced to his right side, where Clary had without even her knowledge drifted to. She placed a hand on the stone ledge, closing most of the distance between them without touching him.

His hair floated on the breeze, when a particularly strong gust pushed it from his face. Clary glimpsed the dark circle beneath his eye, and the large stained bandage that covered his left eye and the wound beside it.

Clary still couldn’t believe she was looking at Alec; he seemed so different… as was to be expected. But still…

Alec’s hair had always been kept a respectable length—a bit shaggy, yes—but formal like every Shadowhunter as devout as he. Now it had grown just enough to completely transform his appearance. Clary had marveled in the few weeks of truly knowing him, at how he was able to completely conceal what he was feeling both physically and not.

But it seemed that his body had had enough of the bullshitting and lies it told the world. Because Clary could see every minute of torture, every ounce of pain etched in the way he held himself, tense and yet not—almost like he was waiting for the next round of agony, almost like he wouldn’t fight it if it meant protecting those he loved.

Clary found herself staring at the slightly lifted sleeve of his shirt, and the skin that had been revealed accidentally. Alec noticed her gaze and quickly repositioned it, pulling the fabric well over his hand.

But she had seen it. The mess that was his wrist.

Deep lines of black and demonic red covered what didn’t even look like skin anymore. The bruises were broken up by missing pieces of skin that had been rubbed into oblivion by the cuffs. Clary had thought the marks were bad when they’d appeared on Jace—merely a dark bruise—but this…

She wondered why he didn’t have the wounds wrapped, especially as he clenched his jaw at the movement of fabric against the raw places. But, before she could decide whether to risk asking or not, Alec raised a hand to his face.

Resting a tremoring palm onto the bandage beneath his long, raven hair he swallowed roughly.

She remained silent as Alec’s fingers picked at the edges of the cloth until it was fully removed. Holding the damp wrapping carefully in one hand, Clary turned fully towards him.

His eye was closed, and the almost healed wound beside it was an angry red beneath the stitches. He looked at her with his opened right eye, the city lights reflecting off that blue iris in a way that made Clary yearn for paint and canvas.

Alec cleared his throat.

“She… got bored of sharp things. Said I always screamed the same, so she dipped the blades in demon blood… and went over this cut by my eye. But,” he took a deep breath and opened the closed lid, “it was too close.”

Clary let out a strangled noise as the gasp caught in her throat. B-because… because the his iris that had been such striking blue… it was darker than the midnight sky. Black as his pupil.

And the area surrounding that iris, in what had been the white of his eye… it was now marbled. Lightning bolts of black and grey marked the once pure space—the random streaks frozen in an eternal pattern around the void-like iris and pupil.

It was completely devoid of any color—off balanced—such a stark contrast to the ocean that remained in his unharmed right eye.

Piercing light of blue beside the almost horrific marble encrusted darkness.

This, Clary realized, is what he hadn’t wanted Magnus to see. Hadn’t wanted _anyone_ to see. It took a moment to find her own voice.

“Does it-,” her voice barely louder than the breeze, “does it hurt?”

He turned away, back to facing the neon shop lights and luminous bustling streets below.

He nodded grimly.

Hair fell over his forehead, nearly hiding the mismatched eyes beneath straining brows, but the shudder that wracked his frame wasn’t so easily hidden.

“Can… you see?”

His lips tightened into a thin line as he reapplied the bandage with extremely gentle fingers. She could see the cityscape reflected in that blue iris—in the pool of liquid that had gathered there.

“No.”

Clary’s heart skipped a beat. And then another.

“Well… vague shapes and light sources… but that’s it. I-,” his voice caught as he tried to form the words he hadn’t been able to speak since discovering the trauma, “I can’t see anything past that. I’m... I’m blind.”

Time slowed. Clary couldn’t breathe.

Nothing in the city could be heard by her ears other than the voice in her head—Khalida’s laughter that screamed this was all Clary’s fault. Nothing in the world existed other than the tears that began to flow from the pool in Alec’s right eye.

Nothing in the universe could have stopped Clary as she pushed from the ledge—stone scraping beneath her palms—and tore through the door.

The stairwell.

The halls.

Not even her friends who she passed in a blur.

Not even the sound of her boots colliding with the tile reached her ears—through the descending staircase, the cavernous stone corridor, past cell after cell, further into the starving darkness that seemed to devour the light from each brazier nailed to the arched walls.

No one— _nothing_ could halt her fury. Not the guards stationed at the barred door, not the voice in her head that screamed to run away from this place, not the sound of her friends racing down the stairs and through the long hallway towards her. None could stop Clary as she struck the guards and stole the key.

The thick metal bars clanged heavily against the door frame as she jerked the door shut behind her, locking it and throwing the key through the space between each beam of frigid iron.

As Clary Fairchild turned to the prisoner, she felt her teeth bare and her lips raise.

And Khalida had to admit… the redhead definitely had a smile that rivaled her own.

* * *

 

 

Jace slammed into the welded bars, not able to slow his momentum as the others did. But it didn’t matter, nothing mattered, because Clary had locked herself in with a monster.

He didn’t care that the prisoner had barely moved since that first day, as far as he was concerned, this was a different breed of being. One that could hold a pleasant conversation while pouring poison into your tea right in front of your face with a smile.

“Clary get out of there, what are you doing??”

But Clary didn’t turn. Her lean form breathed heavily and the hissing of labored air told Jace that her teeth were clenched. With her back turned to them, she spoke into the darkness.

“S-she…” Magnus could tell that her words didn’t stumble due to fear, but from barely controlled rage. Jace tried again.

“Clary, calm down. Come out of there,” he coaxed. But she didn’t move.

“No.”

None of them saw her so much as flinch, not even Khalida whose throat was suddenly pinned beneath Clary’s knee.

“Clar–”

But she cut off the yells from behind her with a feral snarl, “She _blinded_ him.”

The room went still, Khalida didn’t even try to breathe beneath the increasing pressure.

“What?” It was all Simon could say as everyone still stood frozen and wide eyed.

Clary didn’t repeat herself. She simply leaned further into Khalida’s face, adrenaline coursing through her veins, causing her voice to shake.

“I should kill you right now.”

Simon didn’t recognize the woman speaking—he’d never heard her words filled with so much hate—had no idea she was even capable. He felt like he shouldn’t be watching, but the vampire couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scene—loose red hair getting closer and closer to those green streaked brown eyes.

“I should slit your throat and watch you bleed out,” not a threat. A promise.

The monster fixed her brown gaze on Clary and said in a bored whisper laced with disappointment, “You won’t.”

“I wouldn’t put it past Clar–,” Simon started. But Khalida, still focused on the seething woman above her with bared teeth inches from her face, interjected.

“She won’t. Know why?” She closed her eyes, exposing her neck in the exact way Alec had done for her so many times.

“No,” Simon said, voice wary.

At that, Khalida’s eyelids flew open and she burst out laughing. Her crackling fits reflecting off the cell walls and clanging through the door’s bars.

Clary stole a glance behind her at an equally confused Magnus. The nightmarish acoustics ceased with a round of coughing, yet she remained flat on the floor. Spine pounding against the ground as each cough lifted her mutilated chest up and crashing back down.

Her eyes cracked open with a smile and she turned her gaze to Simon.

“Of course you don’t know… I don’t either.” An edge sharpened in her voice, coy and playful, “But do you want to know a secret?”

The smile broadened and rows of perfectly aligned teeth shone in the flickering firelight. Her voice hissed through those opalescent teeth in tight streams.

“Ask her little vampire, ask her. She won’t kill me no matter what I’ve done. I’d bet my life that it’s because of some shred of morality. Such a mundane thing, that. I could slaughter an entire race to extinction, and still I’d bet she would hesitate to drive a seraph blade through my heart. Know why? Because Clary Fairchild is _pure_.”

She said the word like a curse, spat it out into the frigid air. Khalida gasped for that air, still reeling from the laughter and coughing before. Once her lungs were content, she flattened herself onto the ground once more, and had the nerve to look relaxed.

“I’ve seen death,” she rasped. “You don’t have his smile.”

She began to laugh, not in loud boughs like before, but lighthearted giggles almost as if she were a schoolgirl watching a flustered boy stutter while talking to her.

Clary rose from the ground, turning towards her friends and the light that flickered behind them. They had broken from their initial shock, but remained still in the corridor. She offered a soft smile to them each.

And with a deep breath, Clary whirled around and drove her fist towards Khalida.

The laughter ceased.

Clary would be lying to say the crack beneath her knuckles didn’t feel therapeutic, if not euphoric.

She stepped over the prone body, the blood on her hand tingling like poison against the cold air, and strode through the door past the guards of whom were just now regaining consciousness.

Gathering the key from the ground, she threw it to one of the guards and continued to the stairwell.

When she was halfway through the stone archway, Clary threw her voice behind her shoulder to the men rising from the floor.

“Call for the doctor. I think the prisoner has broken her jaw.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update broke my heart a little to write, but I hope you like it :)  
> Can't say this enough but, thank you so much for reading/commenting/leaving kudos!!  
> It makes my day to hear what you think <3

 

 

Finally back to his bedroom, Alec made sure the doctor was gone before slamming the door behind him.

He couldn’t get it out of his head, couldn't erase the image, couldn’t release the lump in his throat, couldn’t stop the pressure from building in his chest or the room from spinning.

All he could see was Clary.

The way she’d looked at him, the way she’d taken one look at the dead eye and gone white with shock. With horror.

Unable to feel his own hands or hear his own racing heart, Alec ripped the bandage from his face, throwing it into the spinning room. His ragged hair touched the stitches beside his left eye, prickling against the closed lid, but still the memory didn’t stop replaying.

Because in the reflection of her eyes, Alec had seen himself.

Seen that he really, truly was the animal Khalida had treated him as. He couldn’t stop the flashing images of her slack jaw, couldn’t get that sound out of his ears. That strange and strangled sound that was nothing more than a whisper yet a scream all the same.

With shaking hands, Alec began to pull at his shirt, knowing nothing except for the primal need to rip the constricting bandages from his body. The room was spinning and the images followed, but something caught his eye. A polished black surface that glinted in the lamp’s light.

He fell towards it, recognizing it’s finish despite the chaotic maelstrom of his mind. A hand ghosted over the familiar object.

_my bow_

Hands still tremoring, Alec grasped the bow and retrieved an arrow from beside it. He went to knock an arrow—twisting his arm instinctively to grip the arrow with his fingertips in a way as familiar to him as breathing—when suddenly he feels every muscle, every tendon in his wrist seize. They tried to pull taught against the shredded pieces surrounding the joints, but the damage was too severe.

The bow released from his hand in a spasm, and as it fell to the ground he instinctively tried to catch it, only to have another jolt of searing pain lash throughout his entire arm. Letting the sacred bow crash to the carpet, the arrow bounced out of its place and skid away as he staggered back, extremely lightheaded. He tried to brace himself against the weapons cabinet, but knocks his quiver to the ground, sending the arrows flying.

Alec grabbed handfuls of hair between his trembling hands, fighting to pull himself together when suddenly he hears movement behind the door. He freezes, swiveling to the sound as liquid panic began to boil, threatening to melt his veins.

He hissed at the pain in his wrists and arms as he, without realizing it, began crouching into that familiar position. And as he crouched onto the floor, knees digging into the carpet, his damaged mind set off alarms.

_it’s her she’s here she’s here she’s h-_

A knock sounded against the wood, causing him to freeze. Khalida never knocked.

“Alexander?”

_Magnus_

His head lifted from the ground, looking to the door longingly. But he did not rise.

“Alexander…I-I need to see you… please. Please just, just let me see you,” Magnus pleaded as he placed his forehead against the door. All he wanted to do, the only thing he wished for in this cursed universe was to hold Alec. Hold him and never let go. But if Alec couldn’t handle that right now, the warlock would settle with just _seeing_ his mate.

Moments passed endlessly until Magnus finally released a long breath that hurt to exhale, and moved from the door.

But as he turned, it opened.

Alec didn’t say anything, kept his head low, his hair—longer than usual—over the left side of his face. Magnus couldn’t help but notice that despite the obsidian locks covering the damage, he could see no bandage or wrapping.

“Alec,” he breathed. Khalida’s screams, the shattering of mirrors, his own blind anger—it all melted away.

He reached forward without thinking, needing to touch those bruised cheeks, feel the muscles beneath the torn flesh of his arms and chest. But Alec did something that made Magnus wince, made him wish for death.

Because Alec… he stepped away. Took two uneasy strides backward from Magnus’ reach, that eye of piercing blue going wide as his bruised hands rose to stop the warlock from nearing.

Alec stayed like that, frozen in fear, until his mind caught up to what he was doing. With flushed cheeks, he silently retreated further into the room without asking Magnus to follow.

He did, of course, after remembering how to breathe and shut the door tightly. Turning towards the room, Magnus saw a floor littered with arrows and Alec’s bow strewn beside them. Marks in the ornate rug caught the warlocks eyes, two impressions in the soft material that looked vaguely like…

Alec saw the realization build in Magnus’ eyes and loudly cleared his throat from the chair he’d unwillingly had to lower into due to his weakened state.

Magnus blinked, but turned away and took place in a nearby seat. Alec didn’t look up, wouldn’t tear his single—eyed gaze from the scattered arrows that sent echoes of pain throughout his wrists.

Curiosity mounting, Magnus couldn’t stay silent any longer. He had to know, had to see what Alec was trying so hard to conceal. The warlock moved to his seats edge, closer to Alec but not touching, despite how much he ached to.

“May I see?” he whispered, gesturing to the hair covering half of Alec’s face.

After a moment of silence, Alec surprised Magnus by nodding. A movement so slight that Magnus would have missed if not for gazing upon the other male so intently.

With the most delicate touch, Magnus swept the hair from Alec’s face. Although he was extremely careful to not graze the skin with his rings, Alec shivered at the touch and kept his now uncovered left eye closed.

A scar, easily the length of Magnus’ pointer finger, was etched within that beautiful pale skin. But the eye stayed closed.

Magnus could barely breathe as Clary’s voice, her fury, echoed in his head.

“May I see?” he repeated.

Alec took a deep breath, closing both eyes as he swallowed. And then, he opened them both, leveling his gaze with the warlock.

Magnus was at a loss for words. He’d seen enough injuries in his centuries of life to know that the damage couldn’t be saved by magic. The marbled obsidian was a mark of death. It took every ounce of his being to keep from sobbing or averting his gaze from the trauma. But Magnus forced himself to look up at the man he loved, stare deep into both irises.

“Alexander, you are beautif–,”

“No,” Alec interjected, his voice flat. Magnus recoiled with surprise, watching the Shadowhunter pinch the bridge of his nose between two scarred fingers and wince in pain.

“Alexander?”

“Don’t say… don’t say I’m beautiful. Nothing she did to me is _beautiful_ ,” he spat out. “I’m useless.”

Magnus gaped, taken aback by the strange behavior, “You know that’s not true, Alexan–”

“Oh save it,” Alec seethed from beneath his palms. “I can barely walk, can’t use my bow… I can’t even see with both eyes!”

Magnus could feel the desperation in his words, and it killed him to hear such strain in the young warriors voice. It stole the air from Magnus’ lungs. Made him forget how to breathe. How to live.

For the first time in his entire life, the warlock had no idea what to do.

No clue how to comfort the distraught male who gave and gave and gave, only to have his mind and body turned against him. Magnus’ mouth opened and closed, at a loss for words, for solutions. Until something caught his attention, something Alec had just said that explained the littered floor.

“What did you mean you can’t use your bow? Did you try to use it?” Alec didn’t remove the hands from his face, but Magnus couldn’t stop as his pitch increased with days of pent up concern, “In this condition?! The doctor said you shouldn’t try for another few weeks! If you don’t stop overworking yourself and get some sleep, what the hell are we going to do, Alec? Strap you to the bed?!”

The second Magnus’ words burst from his lips, he clasp both hands to his mouth with a gasp.

“Alexander… I–I didn’t mean… I would–I’d never…”

But it was too late, the frantic threat still echoed throughout the room. And Alec… Alec wasn’t breathing. His entire body had stilled, spine freezing as his face turned paler with every shallow breath.

 

_When will you have had enough_

 

_but, Alec… who saves you…_

 

_When will you stop suffering for them_

 

Magnus vaulted for Alec but was too slow, all he could do was break the fall as Alec crumpled to the floor. The larger male shivered on the ground, drawing in on himself as Magnus hovered near.

After what felt like hours of Magnus being useless to help fix what he’d done, Alec’s breathing evened out. The sporadic tremors ceased, and Alec struggled to sit upright.

Magnus tried to apologize, but Alec winces at the frantic assault of words and holds a hand up.

“I… I’d like to g-go to bed now.”

Biting his tongue, Magnus remains silent as he helps Alec up, speaking only once the Shadowhunter was beneath his sheets.

“I am so sorry, Alexander.”

The whisper floated around the room as he turned without another word. He was almost to the door, one hand over the light switch, when a broken _“stay”_ drifted to him in jagged pieces.

Magnus whirled back around to see those flush cheeks return. He realized that Alec had surprised even himself by the plea and was now retreating into himself. But Magnus spread a steady hand before him, “Of course.”

He could see the internal struggle Alec was having as it dawned on him that he didn’t want Magnus in bed with him… not yet… but he also wanted the warlock to stay.

“It’s alright,” he comforted, “I understand.” No matter how much it hurt–how much he ached to just _touch_ his bandaged mate.

With the flick of his jeweled wrist, a luxurious cot appeared against the far wall, a distance away from the bed that Alec settled into with a series of low grunts and winces that he tried hard to conceal.

Once they were both in their separate beds, the light flicked off and they were separated by darkness. Suffocating darkness.

Magnus lay on his back, staring into the void, and could sense the potent anxiety radiating from the other side of the room.

Because in the blank emptiness, Alec was back in that cell. Was waiting for the candle to come. Waiting for fresh pain to be delivered by the edge of a poisoned blade.

After what felt like an eternity of Magnus staring at nothing, a broken voice finally rasped through the night, “C-can you… the light…”

Without a word, Magnus let go of the magic he’d been gathering in anticipation, releasing a burst of light and stars. He willed the plume to rise and cover the ceiling. Royal purple, deep blue, captivating green—a nebulous sky glittering with stars.

A cosmos, just for his Alexander.

Wanting to behold the ethereal beauty, Alec picked at the bandage covering his eye in a haze of awe, without realizing what he was doing. But when the wrapping was fully removed, a feeling—with the same intensity as the pain that flared from his left eye—speared through his chest as he blinked that dead, unseeing eye.

Before he could drown in the feeling, Alec replaced the bandage with shaking hands and gazed upon the ceiling with the undamaged right eye.

Magnus felt the tenseness melt away and when he looked across the room, what he saw took his breath away.

The man he loved, asleep beneath a blanket of stars.

Magnus whispered to the beautiful angel, “I love you.”

With a smile lifted by serene peace, the warlock lay back onto his own bed, closing his lids. And with his eyes closed, Magnus didn’t see the single tear that escaped that piercing eye of oceanic blue.

* * *

 

 

“I don’t see why we can’t just kill her and be done with it,” Clary said to the sink beneath her.

“Because that’s not the _Law_ ,” Jace yelled from the bedroom. “No matter the crime, there has to be a trial.”

“Yah well that’s stupid,” Clary mumbled, her voice vibrating off the bathroom tile walls. “Can’t they make an exception? Maybe you could ask your grandmother... she’d understand, right?”

Clary rinsed her mouth with hands that had, until moments ago, been streaked with blood and shaking with rage. Placing her toothbrush in its holder beside Jace’s, she realized he hadn’t answered.

“Jace?” her body went still as she strained to hear a response. None came.

Rushing through the doorway, Clary stopped dead in her tracks. Because Jace was leaning on the bedside, gripping the left side of his face with stifled moans of discomfort.

Clary was instantly beside him, rubbing circles against the solid caverns of his back. Eventually, the pain subsided and with a kiss that said both _“thank you”_ and _“I love you”_ , the two Shadowhunters went to bed.

That was the idea, at least. But Clary, unable to find sleep, stared at the ceiling for what must have been hours. She was in the middle of planning the thousandth way she could murder Khalida, when suddenly from beside her, Jace shot upright in bed gasping for air.

“What is it?” Clary said once she’d overcome her shock. “Did you have a nightmare?”

Jace caught his breath and scrunched his brows in confused concentration.

“ _I_ didn’t.”

Just then, Magnus burst through their door.

* * *

 

 

Alec couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move—paralyzed by fear and clanging chains in his ear. Those awful chains. Just the thought of their weight made his wrists and ankles flare.

_can’t move can’t move can’t move_

He tried to struggle, but his body didn’t so much as twitch. For Alec was trapped in his own mind.

He tried to scream for help, but a voice reached out to him first. That familiar voice that made his heart seize.

 

_Would you like to see it? That line where life and death meet?_

 

_Don’t worry_

 

_after awhile_

 

_the darkness bleeds into the light_

 

_You won’t know you’ve fallen off the cliff_

 

_until it’s too late_

 

Fear gripped him so tightly that his battle training and survival instincts shattered through the paralysis.

Immediately after, a less Shadowhunter instinct that he’d honed himself, kicked in which had him clasping a hand over his mouth to quiet the broken cries.

Hands were on him suddenly, barely felt through the thick bandages that constricted his body, but Alec lashed out—mind frantic—as he tried to discern nightmare from reality.

A yelp shot through the room, but the hands removed themselves and Alec was left writhing on what seemed to be a bed, the neurons connecting and awakening from his sleep, enabling fresh pain to burn through every severed fiber of his being.

He tried to speak, to call for help, but the only language he knew was pain. And the only answer he had was that of anguished screams.

* * *

 

 

“Magnus, what’s wro-are you hurt?!”

The warlock nodded quickly to Clary before locking eyes with Jace, needing him to understand.

“ _Alec_ ,” Magnus said breathlessly, and the warrior needed nothing more before launching himself out the door and bounding for his brother’s room.

Clary’s arms were suddenly around Magnus, who hadn’t realized he was swaying. She helped him to a chair and demanded answers.

“I need you to… to help me with… a healing potion. Alec… he can’t know...”

She opened her mouth to ask why not, but froze as understanding cleared her mind from the haze of near-sleep. One look at the warlock’s arm told her it was shattered, and the bruising that began to take form over the swollen limb… was the size and shape of Alec’s hand.

Magnus confirmed her realization with a weak nod.

If Alec found out he’d hurt anyone, especially his mate… there’s no telling how it would destroy his already mutilated soul.

Clary rose, “Tell me what I need to do.”

* * *

 

 

Jace burst into the room just as Alec was stumbling from his bed. Jace could feel the suffocating fear in his own veins, but knew it was only a soft echo of what pounded through his brother.

Jace made to take a step forward, but Alec was spinning around the room, head in his hands that pulled at his too-long hair. Jace stayed back, realizing that Alec was coming out of a night terror, something he’d been used to when they were kids.

He knew Alec still had them; he also knew that Alec had gotten extremely skilled at controlling his emotions, to the point Jace could only feel slight disruptions in his sleep, but nothing that woke him up completely like what had just happened.

Alec wasn’t calming down like he usually did, his breathing quickened and Jace could feel his own heart begin to race—spiked by the glowing parabatai rune.

“Alec?” he took small steps forward, the taller male now pressed firmly against the wall. “Hey, Alec it’s alright. I’m here, you’re safe.”

With his back against the wall, Alec lifted his half bandaged face from behind two shaking hands. Jace hadn’t seen what was beneath the bandage yet—curiosity burned almost as brightly as his rune, especially after seeing Clary’s reaction—but now wasn’t the time.

Jace had always found comfort in those piercing eyes, but now the singular iris seemed lost, unfocused in a way that sent a chill up Jace’s spine.

“S-safe… not safe,” Alec rasped in a voice that made Jace wince. “Not real… not real…”

The blue eye disappeared beneath those hands once again, the fabric of his nightshirt falling to reveal the raw tissue of his wrists. Jace swallowed at the sight but focused on his brother who was shaking his head within his palms.

“Not real not real not real,” he repeated desperately.

Jace hovered a hand over Alec’s shoulder before placing it on the hard casing of bandages hidden beneath the dark fabric of his shirt.

“This is real, Alec. You’re safe… we saved you.”

But the moonlit raven hair didn’t stop shaking, “Always say that… n-never real…”

Jace was at a loss at what to do, the rising fear that funneled through his glowing rune made his brain fuzzy and constricted his throat. But he noticed that Alec had removed one hand from his face and was now rubbing the side of his neck.

“N-No! Let go!” Alec shouted when Jace tried to move his hand away in an attempt to see Alec’s neck.

Finally, after much persuasion, he convinced Alec to let go. And Jace was met with a web of red indentations that spanned along his jugular, crossing through the black stripe of bruising that choked his neck.

Injection sights.

The dots in his mind connected and it dawned on Jace what was happening. His gut twisted at the truth he’d discovered, not wanting to believe it, but this was undeniable.

Khalida had drugged Alec, something hallucinogenic, that had caused Alec to see this exact situation. See himself be rescued, live in those moments vividly, begin to feel safe. And then the drug would leave his system, and he’d be back in the cell with a knife to his face.

Jace closed his eyes for a moment, trying to keep himself from going and killing the bitch right now. When they opened, Alec was sliding down the wall, gasping and wincing in pain.

“This is real,” Jace whispered as he helped Alec to stand. “How can I prove it to you? There must be a way… something that never happened in the hallucinations?”

The shaking stopped, the fluttering eye and racing breaths ceased. Jace almost gasped at the sudden clarity that filled his own veins as the bond cooled. And Alec concentrated.

“H–her,” Alec said sheepishly. Jace nodded, encouraging him to explain. “ _She_ was never there. Talked about, but n-never seen…”

Jace offered a hand which, much to his surprise, Alec took.

Sparks of pain shot through the bond as Alec straightened his posture and followed Jace out of the bedroom that wreaked of fear and blood… just like his cell.

“You wanna see the bitch? I’ll take you to her.”

  



	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well the story is coming to it's end, I think the next update after this will be the last chapter.  
> I hope you like this one, let me know what you think!
> 
> As always, thank you SO much for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos  
> <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

 

 

The doctor had seen much in her long life. 

Been witness to many a battle, grown accustomed to the chaotic melody of blood and screams; healed angels and demons, holding those she could not save—those past the help her skills provided; skills she had been taught as a child by the witch-like beings that took her in as a young girl after the untimely death of her parents. 

Not magic; that was for the glittering beauties of eloquence and fine silk. She was a nephilim by birth… but an alchemist by survival. The estranged women had shielded her from the short life expectancy found by Institute raised hunters, yet taught her of the runed race that was her birthright.

But with the Sight, she had seen the horrors of Downworlders and Shadowhunters. Bared witness to the discrimination and lethal divide the two worlds had cleaved between themselves. And when, on her tenth birthday, those twelve haggard women—beautiful only by their wit and surprisingly gentle nature—had offered her a choice, she asked to stay.

 

_ I wish to learn so that I may help them. _

_ Help who, child? _

_ Those of ancient blood with an aura of below, and those marked by the holy.   _

_ Everyone. You wish to help them all... is this what you truly desire, my child? _

_ Yes.  _

_ Then we will teach you. We will teach you all we know. _

 

And when she had finally departed from her forest home of twelve years for the last time, she was a master of mystical ointments, herbs, and basic yet complex potions.

Potions like the one she now dripped from the tip of a pipet onto the cracked jaw she held in her hand. The aromatic liquid seeped into the tender skin, instantly reducing the swelling and lessening the black and red stripes of bruising that looked to be the size of a female’s fist… possibly that one with a crown of flowing crimson locks.

Her hands were steady as she continued her ministrations on the barely conscious patient from the cold cell floor. 

The doctor prided herself on providing unbiased care, helping those that needed it, then moving on to the next. No strings attached to who it was or what they had done—good or bad. Everyone received the same treatment, the same compassion and dedication from her unwavering hands.

But after caring for that raven haired boy—whom she’d spent sleepless nights scouring her books bound in rare leathers for a potion, an ointment,  _ anything _ that might lessen his pain and close his wounds faster… something that might make the child’s sight return—

She hoped Khalida burned in hell. And she wished—more than she had wished to help all of creation—that she could bare witness to the suffering.

Mind wandering as she wiped her hands on the fabrics of her layered skirt, the doctor’s head quickly rose to the cell door. For two figures, the larger one being supported by the other, suddenly came stumbling down the dimly lit arched hall.

The guards—who had been using every shred of willpower to not watch the doctor do her strange work, one betting the other lunch that the old woman would kill the prisoner herself—rose abruptly, but settled once a commanding voice boomed towards them.

“Jace Wayland. Leave us.”

They did as ordered, not commenting on how the Head of the Institute’s silhouette was malformed due to the heavy bandages beneath his shirt, nor did they mention how he was barely standing on his own. 

The doctor rose on deceptively strong legs. She parted her lips to ask why they were down here, why Alec was out of bed when she’d given him clear instruction to rest.

But her mouth closed into a tight line upon seeing the shaking head and tremoring form of the poor child.

She instantly understood, getting the complete story from the blond males expression. She could read the fear, the pain, the sorrow from those orbs. So, with a silent nod, she opened the metal door and stepped through, closing it shut behind her.

“Take all the time you need,” she said, voice soft as a warm embrace. “She is sedated.”

The doctor retreated to the stairs, feeling something odd rise in her chest with such intensity that she paused, looking over her shoulder. Although the tunnel-like hall spanned between them, the doctor could envision every bruise, every laceration that she had woven with thread or rubbed with salve.

Khalida burning in hell… yes, she would like that very much.

* * *

 

 

“So,” Clary said to the warlock as he downed the magic infused elixir, “you have some  _ serious _ explaining to do.” 

Magnus closed his eyes as the liquid began to take effect, and within seconds was able to release the cradled arm with only the mildest of discomfort. Opening his eyes, he watched Clary as she hovered over the table, obsessively organizing the ingredients they had just used. 

“I’m sorry.”

He rose and took the Shadowhunter by either shoulder, softly pulling her towards a chair. 

“I truly am sorry for frightening you.”

Clary shook her head in dismissal, but didn’t deny the fear that had been thrumming through her veins ever since Magnus had burst through the door.

“What happened?” she whispered, not having the courage to ask if Alec had gotten more injured than he already was.

Magnus released a pained sigh, pain not from his arm, but from that beating thing inside his chest. The warlock began to pace, “Alexander was having a nightmare… one with which he could not wake from. I–,” he pinched his nose, head shaking with guilt, “–I could do nothing to help.”

“Oh, Magnus…” her soft voice trailed off as she embraced the warlock.

She could feel the tension, the pain that only centuries of this unforgiving existence of life could keep contained. Magic thrummed against her body, and the form within her runed arms suddenly pulled away. 

Clary parted her lips, about to ask what was wrong, when Magnus held a finger up and with determination etched on that sorrowful face, a cell phone appeared on his hand. 

The epiphany had him dialing a number and placing the device on the bed as he sat next to it, head in his hands. 

_ Please pick up please please _

Monotone rings filled the room in a cadence that although steady, caused his heart to quicken. He grasped the phone to his cheek.

On the other end of the line, Catarina raised the vibrating device to her ear. 

The rapid stream of words caused the warlock to set down the potion she’d been mixing midair with a tendril of magic, instead moving to her leather chair to listen intently.

A hand raised to her mouth, eyes widening in shock at what her eldest friend confided… tortured… partially blinded… She had met the raven haired boy only a handful of times, but she had no qualms with him; had even been shocked to discover that a being with angel blood in their veins could be so kind hearted and likeable. She never again had to wonder why Magnus was drawn to the warrior.

But what he spoke of… 

Catarina could hear the desperation in her friends voice and it killed her, but she had to refuse the broken pleas. “I cannot heal him, Magnus.”

The pause on the other end of the line chilled her ancient bones. Magnus Bane was rarely silent.

“You can’t, or you won’t?”

She hesitated, letting the hurt of each word settle into her soul. “You know that this is outside of my expertise,” she said, trying to reason with the devastated male. “You are correct, I won’t heal him. I fear it would only make the situation far worse. This type of injury you describe… it is extremely complex. And I am not too proud a warlock to confess that such a thing is beyond my capabilities.”

“Then who can,” he demanded without apologizing for the caustic tone.

Catarina rose from her chair, beginning to pace the exotic wood floor before responding.

“I will not condone this but…  _ think _ , Magnus,” she stressed, not able to form the words for fear that they might come true. “What, above all else, can heal a wound inflicted by a demon’s blood?”

After a moment, realization dawned on him and he cursed his own stupidity before fear threatened to overtake him at what she was suggesting. He concealed his own emotions as to not frighten the Shadowhunter hovering beside him. After thanking Catarina, he willed the phone to disappear.

“Magnus? What did she mean by that?” Clary asked wide eyed, not pretending she hadn’t been listening the entire time.

Magnus slowly met her gaze, giving a soft smile that seemed almost pained.

“Don’t worry, biscuit. Stay with the others, I will return soon.”

“Magnus, wait a–”

But it was too late. The High Warlock was gone.

* * *

 

A warm breeze played with her strewn hair, the brown locks glistening in the light to reveal those elusive streaks of gold.

Because in her mind, Khalida was resting atop her favorite grass covered hill with Brooklyn’s hand woven into her own. In her broken, tattered mind, Khalida was safe. Home. Not in a cell atop frigid stone, not shivering violently from the cold nor from the sharp pain radiating from her jaw.

A memory. A beautiful one, played in her head. The only company she had. But Khalida was not alone; not when the memory played like a film.

Talking lazily about everything and nothing at all—their histories, their lack of parents—just enjoying the rare time together. Khalida could remember the steady thrum of her mate’s heart, beating through the jugular that she lovingly ran a scarred hand over.

Scarred with murder from the hunts the Institute routinely sent her on, and yet… Brooklyn trusted them completely; told her often. 

Khalida had been connecting the star-like freckles, connecting the constellations that were not just on Brooklyn’s face, when she’d whispered something without realizing.

“My family is gone. I have nothing left.”

Brooklyn had wiped the tears Khalida hadn’t realized were falling, the liquid caught beneath a calloused yet gentle finger. 

“You have me,” she’d whispered back thickly. “I have you.”

Brooklyn had drawn her in tightly until all Khalida could hear was the steady rhythm of her mate’s heart; the deep rumble of her voice.

“And until every last star in the galaxy has died… we will have each other. Do you hear me, Khalida Malvolia?” With a tight squeeze, she had promised to the universe held in her arms, “We will have each other.”

But she had lied. Brooklyn had  _ lied _ to her.

Because it wasn’t the stars that had died.

And they had taunted Khalida every night since.

* * *

 

 

Jace brought Alec closer to the cell door, holding him up with sore arms to see the creature inside. He whispered beside him to look, to see the reality.

Taking a step back, it physically hurt Jace to watch Alec. To see him barely able to stand, moving rigidly to avoid flares of pain, almost as if the bandaged skin was tight with scabs. Like scattered islands embedded in his skin. Jace could imagine how thick and rough they must be, how incessantly the healing wounds must itch.

Alec grasped the bars desperately, pulling himself closer. He took it all in with that sole eye. Took in the form sprawled atop the stone like a sacrifice, the neckline of its shirt was stretched and drooping, revealing the angry red streaked skin beneath. He studied the familiar hair—images flashing in his mind of those same brown locks brushing against his parted flesh that dripped with sweat and blood.

_ Real. This is real. _

After an endless moment passed, still staring at the body on the floor like a blind man seeing a sunrise for the first time, Alec spoke to his parabatai, “I figured it out.”

Jace didn’t break his gaze with the body on the floor that he wished didn’t have a chest that rose and fell. He could almost imagine it, that the body was dead. Could be suffering as badly as his brother.

“Figured out what?”

“Her,” Alec’s voice was thick and every muscle ached, but he went on. “Before I was… you know… I’d been hunting for intel, motivations, convictions.” 

“Evidence,” Jace whispered with realization, turning to face Alec, “for a trial.”

Alec nodded.

A dagger of hope speared through Jace’s heart. As far as he was concerned, Khalida didn’t deserve justice—was far beyond deserving of a fair trial. But if a trial could unveil her depraved acts to the Shadow World, then he was game.

“What did you find?”

Alec turned from the cell, unable to keep his mind from playing tricks–placing him on the stone floor instead of the female. 

“Get the others. This will take a while.”

* * *

 

 

“Why do I get the feeling you are here to ask something of me?” the voice reached Magnus before he could see it’s wielder. “You never visit to just… chat.”

The warlock was in no mood for mock sorrow, had no energy to be wasted on petty banter with the being that now stood before him cloaked in billowing darkness. It’s presence demanded respect and formality, but Magnus had no time for either.

So he told his father everything. Revealed what he knew of Khalida and her evils, revealed the torture she had bestowed upon his soon to be husband. Asmodeus listened as intently as Catarina had, but no gasps escaped the greater demon. No pained expressions or widened eyes.

Those eyes that held no color and yet every color all at once, narrowed.

“The girl you speak of… she controlled one of my creatures… one I was quite fond of.”

Magnus opened his mouth to retort on the irony that  _ Asmodeus _ , the monster that held no love in his heart, was “fond” of a mindless murder weapon. But something in his father's voice gave Magnus pause. An emotion that Magnus himself had been fighting to suppress since the day a panting werewolf had burst into a warlock ballroom. 

Unbridled rage.

The kind that settled into the very fabric of your soul and granted clarity, bestowed an unnatural calmness. 

“That girl,” he seethed, “has been killing my creations. You wish to have your Alexander’s vision returned?”

Magnus had no words, only nodded firmly. 

“Kill her, and the sight is yours.”

Just as his mouth gaped open, a fire message appeared, flying directly for Magnus. He read Jace’s scribbled font that simply said: 

 

_ Alec’s room Now _

_ He got info on Khalida  _

_ before capture _

_ Gonna explain _

 

The letter vanished, but as Magnus raised a hand to portle away, he locked eyes with the being atop that horrible throne.

“Thank you, father. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

To that, Asmodeus’ eyes did widen; only a fraction but Magnus caught it. He knew it wasn’t the words themself that had surprised the greater demon, because the same thing had shocked even Magnus.

What had parted one of the most powerful demons in history and startled the High Warlock of New York, was the fact that Magnus had meant every word.   

* * *

 

 

“The information your mate gathered is correct, but…,” of the two warlocks seated across from Magnus on his couch, the female speaking hesitated and looked to the male. Her lilac scales glinted in the soft candlelight that illuminated the apartment.

The broad shouldered male placed a hand on his partner’s knee, continuing for her with a wary voice.

“There is much we may be able to provide.”

Although Magnus nearly drowned in the wave of relief that overtook him, he rose with that feline grace that he had mastered, and held up a hand, “I hold a belief that conversations of such levity may only be conversed over drinks.”

After receiving shy yet grateful smiles in return, Magnus whisked away into the kitchen. Exaustion pulled at his every limb, the day had been brutal—the visit with his father, then the hours of discussion in Alec's room where he had to listen to the still ruined voice of his mate without being able to touch him—but despite being nearly midnight, it had just begun. 

As he filled the artisanal crystal glasses with sweet smelling liquor, he had his magic quietly write up a fire message.

 

_ Call for a trial. _

_ I will be there soon. _

 

He couldn’t kill Khalida, not yet, not before the world saw her burn beneath her crimes. And the two warlocks seated in his living room—the last survivors of that night Khalida lost her mate… some woman named Brooklyn—they could be the key.

  
  



	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter!!  
> I am so grateful to all of you for coming on this crazy ride and I hope you like the ending!
> 
> Sorry this took so long to write, its wayyy longer than any of the previous chapters :)
> 
> Prepare yourself and enjoy <3

 

 

Everything ached. Every fiber in his body—from his throat, to the slowly healing muscles in his arms and legs, to his mauled eye beneath the white bandage and the nearly severed tendons in each wrist—everything hurt.

If the ever present agony wasn’t bad enough, sleep deprivation and malnourishment had caused the past few hours to feel like the second coming of hell for Alec.

Although he wasn’t chained to the floor in this second cantation, the ornate rug that still bore imprints from his knees were where Alec’s healthy right eye had been fixed for most of the meeting.

Somehow, staring at one thing had made it easier for him to recount his carefully gathered intel and, despite the fact that he was surrounded by friends and family, Alec had been unable to meet any of their gazes as he spoke through still ruined vocal chords.

He’d felt their eyes on him, sensed the worry, but he couldn’t do it. He wasn’t strong enough.

He knew it was stupid, so unwarrior-like, to have so much trouble giving the information—he wasn’t even talking about the torture, for crying out loud. But still… just the thought of _her_ … just having to talk about _Khalida…_ it made him want to sink into those indentations on the rug and beg for death.

Clary knew how hard it was for him, they all did. She had grown close enough to Alec that she didn’t need two eyes to see into his soul. In that uncovered right eye of crystal blue, she could see the images he painted for himself, could read it like a canvas.

She knew he was using every ounce of his shattered being to stay together, to not fall apart at the details, despite them having nothing to do with his capture. And although Clary wanted to know—ached to know what Alec had endured, how each wound had been delivered… how each and every second of pain was her fault— she stayed silent.

When the others rose to begin the chaos that of trial preparations—Magnus would search out the rumored surviving warlocks from that night, hoping to fill some gaps and bring validation to Alec’s intel, while the Shadowhunters and vampire would go to Khalida—Clary hesitated.

Calling for the trial was a process that would take until deep into the afternoon, as Jace and Izzy had explained, and what they had to do—confronting Khalida… Alec couldn’t go with them. But her heart skipped a beat at the thought of leaving him alone. She couldn’t do that, not again, not when everytime she turned her back or stepped out those beautifully carved wooden doors, she returned to find pain and suffering.

Clary turned to Alec, blue iris rimmed with darkness that made her certain that the dead eye beneath his white bandage would bare the same evidence of sleep deprivation. She had noticed throughout his report that he’d winced more than usual at each movement or step he’d taken.

Simon, who was going over the plan with Izzy and Jace, realized that Clary had turned from their circle of conversation and, deciphering the brows scrunched with worry and the male sunk into the chair across the room, raised his voice.

“Hey, I got an idea. Why don’t I stay here with Alec? Magnus,” he turned to the warlock with a pointed look, “can come protal us to the Institute when everything’s ready?”

Jace and Izzy quickly looked to Alec, coming to the same realization and nodded with clear eyes. Because what they needed to do… it probably wasn’t a good idea for Alec to see her again so soon. Jace had been torn apart by Clary for taking Alec to see her, but after he’d explained that it was the only way to break Alec from the nightmare, she’d released a sigh of pent up emotion and whispered that at least she hadn’t been awake.

Jace locked eyes with Clary as she joined his side once more, giving a nod of comfort. Because this time Khalida would be awake, and they were going need her to talk.

Alec didn’t seem to be absorbing much of what was happening, could barely hear the others’ voices over the pounding in his head, meaning he didn’t look up when Magnus said goodbye.

The warlocks hand twitched with the need to touch Alexander’s bandaged face, to try and find words to explain the levity of his love for the hunter despite the wounds he now bore, but turned away.

A portal appeared from beneath those trembling fingers and Magnus was about to place a black diamond studded boot through, when a strong hand seized his wrist.

“Where did you go?” Clary demanded in a hushed breath so that only he could hear.

Although he realized instantly what she was referring to, Magnus whispered back, “Beg your pardon?”

“After talking to Catarina on the phone, you went somewhere to find a cure,” her eyes narrowed in a way that promised no mercy, “Did you find it?”

“Yes and no,” he looked over her shoulder to see Alec barely gripping to consciousness, “this new intel… complicates things.”

Clary released her iron grip, the metallic bracelets clinging together as his hand fell, as she took a step back. And although her facial features softened, her voice was still razor sharp.

“Well uncomplicate it. He’s suffered long enough.”

The words and their underlying threat coming from the usually docile young woman stayed with Magnus—echoed throughout his mind as the portal closed behind him… louder than the deal he’d made with his father.

* * *

 

 

“Okay man, we gotta do something about that headache.”

The apartment was calm, peaceful even, now that the others had left and Alec flicked his gaze to Simon, straightening his posture.

“Oh please,” Simon huffed. “I can hear the blood pounding from here.”

Alec tried to stand in an effort to prove he was alright, but the sudden altitude made his head spin at the same time the tendons in both wrists seized, causing torn muscles to scream along with the other lacerations hidden beneath clothes and bandages.

He crashed back to the chair and though he was reeling from the pain, Alec made to try again, not about to be defeated by his own body. A strong breeze collided with Alec’s overheating skin and suddenly the vampire was pushing him back while being careful of the bandages.

“Stop it!” Simon yelled before taking a breath and lowering his voice, “You’re gonna hurt yourself! Just please… stay down.”

Too tired to object, Alec surrendered and Simon removed his hands with a look of distress.

“Thank you.” He ran a hand through his hair, “I’ve had about enough of you Shadowhunters and your ‘pain is weakness’ bullshit. Supernatural or not, you aren’t a freaking machine.”

Alec was surprised to see Simon—who he’d only really known for a few weeks—speak so passionately… _care_ so much. It was all he could do to nod, but the motion caused his headache to come pounding back, alive again after the shock of Simon’s outburst.

Simon cringed at the sound and popped back up, reaching for a remote on the table beside Alec’s chair.

“Alright, I have a mission for you. Very important.”

Aiming the remote across the room, a tv glowed to life. Alec knew mundanes had these devices in their houses and had even heard of them being in restaurants, but in his life, screens were only used for battle preparation, surveillance, or intelligence purposes. After clicking through a few channels, Simon made some noise of approval before setting the remote onto the armrest of Alec’s chair.

“It’s called, _relax_. It’ll be hard, I know,” he said with mock seriousness, “but you got this.”

Simon could still feel Alec’s single eyed glare burning a hole in his back as he drifted into the kitchen.

He was just starting to pull ingredients from the fridge when a burst of noise sounded from the other room. Dropping everything he’d gathered, Simon ran, almost tearing the door from its hinges before freezing in the threshold.

Because Alexander Lightwood— the famously silent yet lethal force, head of the most vital Institute in the country—was bursting with _laughter_.  

Laughing so hard that there were tears in his aquamarine eye, but not from pain for once, and a bandaged arm clutched his chest.

Simon huffed under his breath with disbelief. He’d gotten Alec to laugh, to actually look worry free and his own age. And all it had taken was Rosa Diaz—who probably reminded the Shadowhunter of himself—and the rest of Brooklyn Nine Nine.

When he turned back to the kitchen, Simon was still shaking his head with a smile.

* * *

 

 

The very second he closed the door behind the two warlocks, that content and friendly face he’d worn since they arrived left Magnus’ face. Pressing his back to the closed mahogany, he fought the urge to slide down it and onto the floor.

He was exhausted, confused, and wished that this was all a nightmare he’d awake from… wished that any moment now he’d open his eyes to see Alexander in bed beside him; unharmed runned arms wrapped around him.

But if there was anything Magnus had learned in his eternal life thus far, it was that the universe gave no favors. It preyed on the strong and decimated the weak.

And for Alec, Magnus would not be weak.

With anger in his veins, the warlock straightened his posture and adjusted the fabrics of his dark emerald top.

The two survivors had indeed filled the gaps in Alec’s intel—intel that had been suspiciously difficult to uncover according to the Shadowhunter’s report earlier that day. But what had been recounted to him over drinks just moments before… it boiled Magnus’ blood.

What they spoke of, mixed with Alec’s intel, it appeared that _Khalida_ might actually be a victim of sorts. And that didn’t sit well with Magnus. Not when he needed to kill her for his mate’s sight to return and pain to disappear.

But still, something seemed off to him and despite all of the knowledge he now possessed, Magnus couldn’t shake the feeling.

Setting the empty whiskey glass onto the ornate table beside the doorway, he let the familiar feel of his magic being released overflow him—comforting warmth but at the same time, chilling alertness—as a portal was fabricated beneath his steady hand.

It was time to confront the viper.

* * *

 

 

Simon pushed through the door, balancing a tray in both hands, and stopped at Alec’s side. He made sure it was the right side so that Alec would be able to see him without turning his head completely due to the bandaged left eye, a mistake he’d made twice now. The most recent time, Alec had been finally taking a nap, when Simon brought a refilled water glass and had gone to set it on the table quietly. But Alec, with the heightened instincts he’d gained during his capture, had sensed Simon in his blind spot and had almost suffered a panic attack.

It had taken almost a half hour to calm his nerves again and regain trust, but now Alec was looking much better having rested and watched the vampire come around front with a clear eye.

“Here ya go,” Simon said, setting the tray he held into Alec’s lap.

The tray was weighted down with an enormous four course meal that smelled so good, Alec could feel his eyes begin to water.

He looked up at Simon, not sure of what to say, not able to quiet the female voice in his head that said this was a trick, that any second now Simon would take it away and attack him.

Simon could hear the quickening heartbeat but nodded at the food, “My mom… she used to tell me that a full stomach could cure almost anything. Probably one of the reasons you’re having trouble sleeping, could be causing the headaches and increased sensitivity too.”

Alec glanced from the tray to the vampire a few times but made no move to reach for the napkin wrapped utensils.

Realization slapped Simon in the face, his conversation with Clary rushing back. It was so beyond unsettling that this legendary nephilim—warrior of the shadows, leader of death—was completely still as he focused that solitary eye filled with submission onto Simon… awaiting _permission_ to eat despite the feral starvation gleaming in the depths of that blue iris.

Bile rose in his throat, but Simon kept the calm smile on his features and gestured to the food before rising to get his own.

“Enjoy, it’s all yours.”

Like an imprisoned wolf whose chains had just shattered, Alec dove for the tray, nearly knocking it over as he ate everything save for the ceramic dishes.

Simon noticed how Alec spasmed, shaking his head in frustration, at the excessive use of his mutilated wrists. The shudders wracked his frame sporadically, but the hunter did not hold back. Not until the tray was empty of every crumb of bread and every drop of broth did he stop, did he breathe.

The vampire didn’t realize he’d been staring until Alec looked up and immediately began to blush with embarrassment.

An awkward silence filled the room, and Simon blurted out, “All right, be honest… I’m totally a better cook than Izzy, aren’t I?”

That rare smile returned to Alec’s lips and he drained the last of his water glass, but not before he nodded with a huff of amusement.

“Simon,” all light drained from his weary face as Alec locked eyes with the vampire. “Thank you for everything. For making me feel… _safe_.”

The way he spoke, it was as if the words were foreign on his tongue and Simon couldn’t help but whisper, “When’s the last time you could say that?”

“Uh… never?” Alec went to rub the back of his neck, only to shudder upon making contact with the line of dark bruising.

“How’d you get…,” Simon began before realizing he’d said anything—but he just couldn’t help it, couldn’t satiate his curiosity any longer.

To his surprise, Alec glanced up at him through the hair veiling his face.

“You don’t want to know.”

Simon was going to let it go, but something made him pause. Because Alec’s words weren’t injected with caution or threats, they were soft and laced with something like _need_ —the need to talk about what he’d endured, the human side of him that couldn’t bare to hold all of the trauma inside anymore.

So, Simon set his mug of plasma down on the coffee table and slid to the back of his chair, steeling his nerves as he met that desperate gaze.

“Yes I do.”

Because Alec had gone his whole supernatural life without having someone he trusted to really talk to, and Simon would die before letting the hunter suffer alone anymore.

Alec didn’t move, didn’t break the gaze, and Simon couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being analyzed. But finally, Alec let out a sigh of discomfort and raised a hand to the white bandage that seemed to be permanently attached to the left side of his face.

He couldn’t talk about it, still couldn’t form the words to explain how Khalida had wrapped strips of leather around his throat and suffocated him every few days, on and off for what felt like hours on end. No matter how much his heart ached to speak, Alec couldn’t.

And he wasn’t sure why he did it, what it was about this vampire that made him feel the comfort of trust and safety, why he was okay with revealing this secret to Simon when he hadn’t yet shown his parabatai or even his sister… but he did.

Despite the fear that threatened to grip him—the fear that Simon would look at him with the same horrified eyes that Clary had accidentally shown—Alec removed the bandage and, with a shaky breath, looked up.

Although he could still only see Simon through his right eye, Alec didn’t break the gaze. He remained statuesque as the other male took in the mismatched eyes with no hints of fear.

Simon didn’t have to ask if it hurt, he heard the spike in Alec’s heartbeat in sync with each blink. Simon didn’t have to wonder if Alec was ashamed by it, he could see the hunched shoulders and tense muscles beneath that black shirt. All Simon had in him to say was a mantra that had gotten himself through the hard times of his life; had given him the strength to keep going in this cursed world.

“Damn, that sucks.”

Alec hesitated before nodding, unable to voice how much of a relief it was to have someone not give pity. To have someone see the torment and acknowledge it without feeling sorry or trying to offer useless condolences.

“Yah… yah it does.”

Simon pursed his lips and reached for something on the table beside his mug.

“But you know what’s great?” He looked to Alec with a smile, “Don’t need two eyes to watch tv.”

* * *

 

 

Izzy pulled her jacket tightly to her frame in an attempt to trap the warmth. This damn cavern was freezing, but they could do nothing. Jace and Clary shook from the chill too as the three waited at the dungeons mouth for Magnus to arrive.

Jace was about to suggest they send another fire message when a burst of orange sparks appeared out of thin air, and a warlock stepped through.

He looked exhausted beneath the glitter and eyeliner, but gave them each soft smiles as he released tendrils of magic to cloak each Shadowhunter.

“So sorry to keep you waiting.”

Izzy shook her head with a grim smile, “It’s fine, let’s get this over with.”

The four were silent as they neared the cell, the guards leaving on Jace’s command once more.

As she came into view—that corpse like body, evident it was alive by the shivering alone—Magnus raised his voice though the stale air.

“Khalida. We need to speak with-”

“You killed them,” Khalida rasped without moving her head just as the others gathered around her cell door. “Your kind killed them all. Hundreds of Downworlders annihilated us Shadowhunters that night.”

“No. That isn’t true. I spoke with two surviving warlocks, and they remember the battle. But it is not what you think.”

At that, Khalida twitched her neck, tilting her head to face the iron bars of her door.

“Oh really? Do inform me.”

Magnus forced himself to meet those strange eyes illuminated by the braziers flickering behind him.

“Your mate, it was her. It was all her. She organized a large battalion of Shadowhunters to a desolate location, hours before she contacted the Downworld leaders, begging for help and claiming that powerful demons had possessed a legion of Shadowhunters from her Institute. They agreed to help eliminate the threat and arrive to the location.”

From beside him, Jace scrunched his brow in surprise at the new information now mixed with what Alec had told them earlier that day. Looking over, he saw Izzy and Clary were having similar reactions as Magnus continued in a steady voice.

“No one—the Shadowhunters she led nor the Downworlders sworn under an oath of peace—knew that she had been slipping small amounts of demon blood into the nephilim’s drinks for days, enough for the Downworlders to detect what they thought to be possession. They were also unaware that she had poured gasoline in the surrounding buildings.”

Khalida turned away, returning her blank gaze to the ceiling as the warlocks words washed over her.

“When the Downworlders arrived, you’re right, they fought. They killed. But only because they believed to be decimating the demons they sensed within their blood. And the fact that the Shadowhunters were fighting back only fueled the false intel fed to them by your mate. When the killing ceased and the Shadowhunters were eliminated, the buildings caught fire, annihilating the remaining Downworlders who had entered believing more possessed nephilim were inside.”

Clary shifted her position at the door to get a better look at Khalida’s face. She wanted to see the reaction, the impact of what Magnus was saying. But that face was emotionless, those brown eyes clear.

“How you were spared, I have no idea. My only guess is that it is what she wanted, what she had planned. Because Alec told me of a theory,” Magnus could feel his voice tremble with barely contained rage, “one he realized during his _time_ with you. He believes that your mate knew how you would react. Knew that a spark needed to be created to ignite the cause she believed in so deeply.”

And although he still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing, Magnus spoke with a mask of impenetrable confidence.

“She used you, Khalida. Your grief and cunning, your unparalleled love for her. She used it to her advantage. You were her tool, and you still are.”

“No. You’re lying,” she curled into herself, grasping her scalp with white knuckles. “Lies,” she seethed. “These warlocks, how do I know they were really there?”

“They described her, your mate. Black hair, olive skin dusted with freckles, blue eyes flecked with gold. They said the last thing they saw over their shoulders as they ran from the flames was a small female, clutching the black haired woman; screaming into the ash filled night sky.”

Khalida shook her head within the firm grasp of her hands. “Your twisted stories won’t work on me. Torture me, fill my mind with lies. But don’t you _dare_ speak of her like that. You know nothing of who she was.”

“Brooklyn. That was her name, wasn’t it?” Khalida’s attention speared to Clary’s voice, pinning her with that viper glare from the floor, head in both hands.

Faster than Clary could see, Khalida threw herself into the bars of the cell, opening her mouth to wish Clary a slow death for speaking _her_ name, but before she could utter the curse, Clary continued.

“Alec uncovered lots about her before you took him. She was a top hunter in your old Institute. A leader rising in the ranks and commanding her own forces. Before that, orphaned at a young age, just like you. She lived on the streets and nearly died herself until finally joining an Institute.”

Khalida peeled herself from the cell door, sinking back to the floor with crossed legs. She sat there in silence, crunching into herself, face concealed by the wild locks of brown hair, until her frame began to shake. Clary thought it was her usual shivering from the cold, but after a moment, a noise drifted from within the crumpled body.

Gradually it got louder and Clary took half a step backward without realizing, because Khalida lifted her head to the ceiling with a wide smile as she began to snort.

Uncurling herself as the laughter grew, she placed a hand on her stomach as if she’d just heard the funniest joke in the world.

“You’re all hilarious, you know that?”

As she wiped tears from her eyes, Jace pounded at the door and bared his teeth, growling.

“What the hell is so funny?”

“You all tried so hard,” her features contorted into a childish pout, “how long did it take your boy to find all of that?”

They all looked to one another then to the cell with utter confusion, which only caused her pout to contort into a smile once more.

“Manipulated, hah!” Khalida deepened her voice to that of Magnus, “‘ _You were manipulated, Khalida._ ’”

She shot up from the ground, pressing her face into the doors iron bars with bared teeth of her own.

“You really think I don’t know all of that?”

Izzy felt her heart freeze as Khalida moved away from the door and began to dramatically pace across the stone floor, chin between her fingers.

“Let’s all think here… slipping demon blood into the Shadowhunter’s drinks…,” she looked over to the gathering at her door with a mocking look of confusion, “now who does that sound like to you?”

Magnus couldn’t breathe, didn’t think anyone beside him could either. That’s what he had been feeling; what he’d felt was missing. It was doubt that one person could have orchestrated the deception on their own. And he should have listened to his own conscious.

“You planned it with Brooklyn,” he said, voicing what they were all realizing.

“Why do you think it was so hard to find any of this intel?” Without warning, she yelled across her cell, voice echoing down the cavern behind the others, “I nailed the truth in a coffin and buried it with my _wife_!”

Jace muttered a curse as he turned his back to the cell, rubbing a hand over his tired face. Magnus was completely still, letting the viper’s words sink in. He’d been wrong… they all had.

Khalida straightened from the far end of her cell, voice shaking with the impact of her rage, even as her body froze.

“You know nothing of darkness— of shadows. And love?” she laughed, the noise strangled as it caught in her dry throat, “You think you know love? I loved her into _oblivion_.”

Clary felt a lump build in her throat, a strangled sound trying to grow as well, but she swallowed the confusion— the despair and frustration— breaking from her frozen stance she rest a hand on Magnus’ shoulder. Khalida stared at that touch, brown eyes gleaming with those poison green stripes.

“She wasn’t supposed to die. It was a mistake… an unfactored principle. There were too many weapons, too much magic to prepare for. We miscalculated, but until now the mission as well as her legacy, was a success.”

With a sigh, Khalida turned her back to them, lowering herself back onto the cold stone floor that she knew so well by now.

“I know it’s hard to imagine that _I_ could cherish anything… but you’re forgetting that even Lucifer had a lover.”

* * *

 

 

The cavern beyond her cell door was empty once again, those silent guards back at their stations like the obedient dogs they were.

Khalida could hear, even from the depths of this dungeon, the bustling in the Institute above as preparations were made for a trial.

Her trial.

Maybe she should be worried, maybe she should put some thought into the impending judgement and scheme up an elaborate lie to cover her crimes. But her mind wandered instead, as it had become accustomed to doing.

The memory that washed over her was one of her favorites, but it had not come to her in many months and she wasn’t sure why it would now.

Khalida had just been stationed at the new Institute, having been sent due to an unfortunate death in the nightly patrols and a vacant spot that needed immediate filling.

She had known no one at the beginning, but quickly found friends amongst her fellow nephilim and a family in the night patrol squadron.

In the first week of being there, surrounded by training partners she had grown close with for dinner, Khalida’s eyes were drawn by some mystical force to the other side of the room… to see the most beautiful entity in all of existence

One of her new companions— the current weapons master who’d been training the stranger in politics and leadership— had noticed the object of Khalida’s fascination, and leaned forward in a hushed tone.

“Be careful of that girl,” he warned with a nod to the freckled angel. “There is a fire burning behind her eyes.”

But what the man had not known was that Khalida too held an inferno within the fabrics of her soul. He had no idea that the two girls would soon come to realize that together, their flames danced and grew as one.

She couldn’t blame him for not seeing the clarity both girls had when locking eyes for the first time, guided by that invisible force. No one in the bustling dining hall saw it. Even if they had, none would have been able to predict what the two would grow into, how their devotion to the other defied all odds, nor what they would burn in the process.

And so, Khalida smiled in her cell. No thoughts of punishment filling her mind, only memories of the gold in her mate’s blue eyes.

* * *

 

 

Although extremely tired, Magnus had a smile on his face as he stepped through the latest portal, for this one would take the warlock to a certain Shadowhunter who’d been on his mind ever since leaving him all those hours ago.

The glittering rim of magic was still sizzling, as per usual when it closed behind him, and Magnus found himself frozen on the spot.

A brow crinkled in confusion and he was afraid he might have somehow portled into another dimension, because Alec was…. laughing?

And from the chair beside him, Simon was belting just as loudly. Pointing at a television wildly, the two males were nearly falling from their seats.

The sound was so strange coming from the eldest Lightwood, and such a contrast from the eerily satanic noises Khalida had made moments before, that Magnus was at a complete and utter loss for words.

Alec must have sensed Magnus with his newly honed ears, because he turned, and when he saw who it was, that aura of tranquility remained— much to Magnus’ relief. Magnus who, after looking from the echo of a smile to the empty food tray on the floor, looked at the vampire with genuine appreciation to which Simon returned with a curt bow.

“It was an honor to babysit Alec for you.”

Alec shoved Simon playfully but kept his head low as Magnus joined the two in the living room, taking the remaining chair.

“So… how’d it go?” the vampire asked, nervous energy radiating from him and his jumpy leg. With a deep and painful sigh, Magnus explained.

“Well, you know how we believed— with the intel Alec had gathered and what I learned from the warlocks— that this Brooklyn woman had tricked her and how we thought Khalida may be a victim of sorts?”

Simon nodded slowly and Alec stiffened beside him.

“We were wrong. She planned everything _alongside_ Brooklyn. They were a team in more ways than we thought.”

Simon thought about this before raising a finger asked, “Okay so… what does that mean for the trial?” Even though he really meant to ask: _will she be punished?_

Magnus rubbed his face, using magic to ensure he didn’t ruin the intricate makeup.

“Well it is good to hear that she isn’t innocent of the crimes we are trying to convict her of. But now that we know she is guilty, we need to prove it, and if successful… she’ll be sent to a Clave prison.”

Simon nodded but hesitated, “Wait, so what you’re saying is… the worst that will happen is that she’s sent to some jail for life? She’ll be tortured at least right?”

He supposed he should probably feel bad for suggesting such a thing, for wishing for it, but Simon’s only concern was that the bitch got what she deserved and then some.

“It depends how far her reach is… how much of the Clave is in her control. If Alec is right in his estimates, then she holds more than half of the officials. Meaning—”

“Meaning she’ll either be released and relocated,” Alec interrupted, “or given protections in the prison.”

Simon gaped at the grim response and swiveled to Magnus, almost like he was hoping for the warlock to disprove the prediction. But Alec was right, and all present were aware.

“I know how to turn them,” Alec whispered to himself in realization after a few moments of heavy silence.

It took Magnus a moment to realize Alec had spoken because once again, the warlock was frozen. Because during the silence, Alec had subconsciously run a hand through his hair in deep thought, pushing those long bangs from his face. And every thought had faltered in Magnus’ brain, for the bandage… it was gone.

The black iris and pupil were on display, the marbled sclera unveiled.

“How?” Simon asked to give Magnus a moment to process this huge step for Alec. When he’d first caught the warlock’s surprised look, he’d winked and nodded with pride.

“I think… I mean…,” but he stopped himself, cheeks flushing as he turned to Magnus.

“What is it, Alexander?”

“I want them to see… I want them all to see.”

Magnus tilted his head with confusion, “I don’t understand.”

Simon and Magnus reached out with yelps of protest as Alec suddenly began removing his shirt with barely suppressed groans. But the two held themselves back, realizing what Alec was thinking.

“I can’t testify… I don’t think I’ll ever be able to explain what she…,” he trailed off. “But I want to show them. I want to show them all what she did to me. It’s the only way.”

Magnus took a step forward, hand outstretched, but he stopped when the palm was hovering over Alec’s bandaged skin.

“Are you sure?”

Alec only nodded, gaze set firmly as he repeated, “It’s the only way.”

Magnus nodded somberly, and with a swipe of his magic coated hand, willed each bandage to vanish.

Simon fought to keep his face neutral, as did Magnus— Simon had thought the eye and wrists were bad… but nothing compared to the satanic abstract art that was his body— and the two silently fell into place, following Alec through the glittering rim.

A warlock, a vampire, and a Shadowhunter; to face whatever was on the other side.

* * *

 

 

It was almost poetic, how Khalida now stood in the circle before the stage of robed beings; Shadowhunters from every Institute at her back in those perfect rows.

Clary could not help but feel immense pleasure from the switched arrangement. She looked to the row of Clave officials lined up on the stage, as the hoods of their crimson cloaks were removed, the standard practice for trial proceedings.

The pleasure rising in her stomach turned leaden as she realized that one of the cloaked figures was different than usual. Instead of the large man that had mysteriously suffered a heart attack just weeks ago, the face that looked out on the crowd of militarily precision from the deceased official’s spot, was one of striking familiarity.

Despite the short amount of time since Clary last saw him, Lucha had changed.

His face no longer lit up with youthful exuberance, his feet no longer wore his beloved artisanal boots. Just as Clary and her friends had been hardened in the past weeks, so too had this child.

“Khalida Malvolia,” a voice boomed from the stage, causing Clary to look away from the boy. “You stand before the Institutes and before the Clave accused of corruption, violation of the Accords, unjust rise to power, multiple counts of murder to innocent nephilim and Shadowhunters, controlling and sanctioning the Creature, and the torture of Alexander Lightwood.”

The crowd was statuesque, but Clary couldn’t resist the urge to scan each face and try to identify which Shadowhunters had been turned, which members of the Clave were devout only to the seemingly meek young woman who had created a network right under the Clave’s nose. She suddenly felt a chill go over her; there was no way of knowing how many were corrupted. She looked to the stage, to the Consul that led this trial, and wondered… _is he a traitor too?_

“Before his kidnapping, you unlawfully stripped Mr. Lightwood of his title. Will the rightful Head of the New York Institute step forward to testify.”

Murmurs swept through the ranks as Alec— bruises and wounds on full display with not a bandage or shirt in sight upon the ravaged skin— staggered gracefully despite the heavy limp and small wrapping that carefully covered that left eye of which had been the cause of endless rumors throughout the Shadow World. In the rare times he’d been seen out of his room in the past few days, Alec was never without extensive wrappings to conceal the extent of damage to his body and that eye.

But no longer.

Once at the empty center, where he had stood only weeks ago to crush the heart and mind of Clary, Alec nodded respectfully to the Consul before turning to face the crowd.

He had no idea how far the reach of Khalida’s influence had been, no clue as to how many faces that stared back at him— at every exposed gash or lesion— with shock and curiosity belonged to her expansive group of followers.

Clearing his voice to lessen the hoarse cracking his voice still bore, Alec looked to them all; meeting the gaze of each and every nephilim present.

“I was chosen to be a leader for my ability to voice unadulterated truths. And it is as such that I will speak to you now.”

The murmuring ceased, the sanctum heavy with silence.

“I spent weeks hunting for any scrap of intel on Khalida before she took me. What I found led me to believe that she had been manipulated— unknowingly persuaded to carry out these evils— but I was wrong. To some of you, this will mean nothing; but to others…”

Alec’s legs ached and it hurt to breathe, the sanctums frigid air giving way to new kinds of agony upon his raised and healing flesh. He could see Jace shifting uncomfortably at the bond faintly glowing from beneath his shirt, but Alec took a deep breath.

“She played a vital role— was one of two orchestrators— in the murder of your loved ones. She came to you all in that night of fire, claiming to be the sole survivor of a mutiny…”

With finely tuned ears, enhanced by is time in that dark cell, Alec noticed that every sound of breathing from the crowd seemed to lessen, to shallow significantly.

“She knocked on your doors leaving bloodied marks upon the wood, brough news of death yet offering an escape from the fresh, vulnerable pain that she claimed to know too.” Alec continued meeting the gaze of each nephilim present, turning now to lock eyes with the members of the Clave. “You related to her because of her own loss. The loss of her mate. A loss that occured only because of a misstep, an uncalculated factor in a plan the dead woman had created alongside the sole survivor.”

A shock of red hair centered Alec as he turned back to the crowd, grounding him as he felt Khalida’s familiar sharp glare burning holes in his back.

“So I ask of you, followers of Khalida—”

He raised a hand to the last bandage— the only one he’d asked Magus to keep on— and in one swift motion, ripped it from his face. And although the removal did nothing for his sight, despite the dead eye’s inability to see, Alec knew that every single being present was staring at the marble encased darkness.

He raised his broken yet impossibly powerful voice, letting every shred of self loathing, every moment of pain and torment, sharpen his words into arrowheads and impale the hearts of the forsaken hidden in the ranks before him.

“— will you continue to disgrace your lifeless mates and blood drained friends by following orders from their killer?”

The crowd erupted, hunters held back from surging the chained woman by tendrils of magic that was cast upon the ground by a shadow veiled warlock.

Once order was reestablished and those out of place were back in their neat rows on the sanctum floor with heaving chests, the Silent Brothers, all being present due to the trail’s magnitude, stepped forward. One placed the Soul-Sword upon a two pronged stand that another produced. The ancient blade rest horizontally before the young woman.

Despite the echoes of Alec’s words, despite the burst reactional chaos, Khalida’s mind wandered. As the Consul clambered out some traditional nonsense that was customary for every large trial, Khalida could feel a soft autumn breeze and the crunch of obré leaves beneath her. But this was no daydream, it was a memory. She knew to tilt her head to the left, and was met with the unparalleled beauty of her mate.

In those rare days of tranquility, when they could sneak out of the Institute between patrols and training, giggling with hands clasped tightly together. And when they reached their spot, that place just through the park— over the clover hill and beneath the willow tree— nothing else existed.

And upon laying down on their sides, gazing into the depths of each others eyes— seeing the light through the darkness— nothing else mattered.

Khalida stepped towards the dias and grasped the Soul-Sword as instructed, her whole body aching with longing.

What did it matter— the mission, the revenge, the bloodshed— if it would bring her no closer to Brooklyn?

She looked to Alec then to Clary and Magnus. She’d left them with enough scars to last a lifetime. She had shattered their trust in a system to which they were devoted, ruined their chances of restful sleep forever. The thought comforted her.

Grasping the sword, it begun to glow, as the Consul recited words of ancient tradition.

“What do you have to say in response to these charges?”

Khalida suddenly realized what she wanted, what she’d always wanted. A home. But not one of brick and mortar, not one of angelic murals and intricate glass mosaics— no. She wanted a real home. The kind she’d found only beneath the willow tree, in the gold flecked eyes of Brooklyn.

Making her decision, a smile spread across her chapped and cracking lips. She tightened her grip on the swords handle, lifting the glowing steel from its pedestal.

Those brown eyes striped with hidden green locked with the mismatched pair of blue and marbled encased black, as Khalida drove the sacred angel blade down.

Straight through her shattered heart.

* * *

 

 

She didn’t cry, didn’t scream.

Her pain was silent as the blood flowed from beneath the blade, warming her chest and staining the holy place of gathering.

The last thing Khalida saw was a shock of red hair, before falling off that cliff and into the darkness that beckoned.

* * *

 

 

Clary couldn’t believe it, neither could anyone else it seemed. One moment Khalida had been touching the sword, and in the next, she was writhing on the ground, the Soul-Sword deep within her chest.

Clary let out a shocked scream as Alec suddenly collapsed to the floor beside her, billowing black magic surrounding his face in a cloud of glittering smaug.

Magnus, Jace and Izzy ran for the fallen male, but just as Magnus was about to do something dangerous, Alec sat up with a groan.

The crowd was silent all around them, but no one made a move for the lifeless woman soaking the marble with crimson red.

“Alexander? Are you alright?”

Alec looked up at the source of the voice, and jolted back, blinking wildly.

“Alec?” Clary yelped, “What’s wrong??”

He couldn’t speak, could barely remember how to breathe, and he didn’t care that the room was filled with nephilim and Clave officials as he shot up and raced to the nearest wall, gazing into the freshly polished glass of a mosaic.

Staring at himself, Alec gasped.

“Brother?” Jace asked warily. Alec turned to face his family, tears gathering in both eyes.

“I can _see_.”

The dull throb that had been such a constant entity in his body for weeks now… it was _gone._ He turned back to the reflective surface and was speechless to realize that the left eye was still that of a horrific black iris and marble schalera. It was the first time he could really see… fully realize what the singular blue eye and monstrous other truly looked like.

Magnus ran for him, noticing the horror building on Alec’s face, and explained in a flurry, “Asmodeus, he said if Khalida was killed, then your sight would be returned, he said he would heal you I-I…”

Alec closed his lids as tears began to trickle from beneath those long lashes. He clenched them tightly before opening both and pinning Magnus with the missmatched stare that would mark him for the rest of his life before pulling the warlock in tightly.

“Thank you, Magnus… _thank you_.”

* * *

 

 

She awoke to weighted limbs that rattled with chain bindings, taught and attached to each corner of a dark cell. Spine arched, face almost in the dirt, the humidity took form like droplets of rain on her already sore muscles.

She awoke to a woman with constellations gracing her skin and a struggling gait as she fought— those strong tan legs trying desperately to resist— fought to stop the demonic force that willed her to move closer. Forced each step closer despite her demands, turned broken pleas, of resistance.

Thick tears gathered in those gold flecked blue eyes because she could not stop, had no control over her own muscles. Could not break the command that had her trembling hands guiding the blade over every inch of the chained hunter beneath her.

Those tears fell, mixing with the blood of her lover. The blood that Brooklyn drew against her will.

Crimson flowed despite her screams to stop, despite the words of comfort that rose from beneath her. That beautiful voice— Brooklyn never thought she’d hear it again. The words tried to be soft despite how they were given through clenched teeth between barely contained grunts of sharp pain.

Because Brooklyn was tearing her apart. Ripping through her mate; the woman she’d been yearning to see ever since she’d arrived to this place of gore and horror.

For months Brooklyn had suffered alone. Stuck in an endless loop of a mission gone wrong. One where she saw her team die horrible deaths over and over again. Through it all, the only thing that kept her grounded, kept her sane, was the thought that one day she might see _her_ again… Khalida.

The thought had kept her heart warm, her mind clear despite the terror she would be filled with if it came true… if Khalida was destined for this place where the stars glimmering light could not reach. But it was the thought of seeing those green eyes that she reminded herself of— more often than the repeating day she endured. Up until a few moments ago when her greatest dream, and most terrifying nightmare came true.

Brooklyn had been halfway through the repeated day— the part when she’d count the last breaths of her team as they struggled for air through their slit throats and collapsed lungs— when her body had begun to fade, only to reappear in this cell.

This dark, impossibly humid cell with only a solitary candle as light.

But it was brighter than a normal flame somehow, almost as if its purpose was to illuminate every wound, every grimace of pain that she was forced to draw from her girlfriend… the woman that had promised to be her wife.

Her _wife_.

Brooklyn had never dared to dream of such a thing when she’d been alive, but Khalida had torn down her walls, shattered the box she’d kept herself in to survive this harsh, unforgiving world.

But now she carved and carved and carved into the most beautiful woman in the universe.

Carved until the blood erased familiarity from that pale skin, until crimson matted that brown hair and muddied the features of her breathtaking face. With the hand she had no control of, Brooklyn made Khalida unrecognizable.

She tried to speak, to beg forgiveness. All she wanted was to hold her, touch the angel beneath her, hear her ethereal voice. But she could not speak, could not move beyond what that demonic force allowed, and it seemed that neither could her mate.

Despite the lack of words— the only sounds being grunts and barely contained screams— Brooklyn could tell that her own death had most likely caused that of Khalida’s. And she knew that it had also most definitely led to the location of her beloved.

How Khalida’s soul had fallen rather than risen.

But it didn’t matter now. None of it mattered. What she’d done… what either of them had or hadn’t done.

Because Khalida had awoken to hell.

She spoke past the blood soaking her throat, filling her eyes and blinding her from seeing the angel holding a crimson blade that was dripping with her liquid pain.

“We were both born in chaos. W-we were both built to… destroy…”

Tears welled up in Brooklyn’s eyes, but she could not speak as the cursed force held her voice even now.

“You were like war… a-and I was… I was like death… And where we collided…”

Khalida couldn’t continue. Couldn’t finish the vows she had recited every evening, beginning with that night of ash covered skys when her mate joined the embers of death within her arms.

And Brooklyn’s voice shattered through the invisible power as she whispered between broken sobs.

_I love you_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO much for reading, I had so much fun writing this!
> 
> Feel free to drop a comment and let me know what you thought, I'm dying to know <3


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